Wild Indigo (11 page)

I should have been tired, but after the startling vision I'd seen on my run that evening, I returned to my cabin and moved and restacked the better part of a cord of firewood in the dark, trying to burn off some of my nervous energy. Mountain, too, remained disturbed—and rather than fall into a pleasant slumber as he normally did after a run—he paced back and forth with me as I carried the logs from one place to the other.

Later that night, I tried to write. My collection of notes from my many visits with Momma Anna lay heaped on the table before me, and I sifted through them to avoid looking at the blank page awaiting proof of inspiration. Each time I had visited, Momma Anna told me a story or demonstrated a tradition, teaching me—in the course of performing her daily routines—about what she called “Indun Way.” She had warned me that writing these things down would surely bring the disapproval of the tribe, as they guarded their cultural traditions fiercely. Another author had written a book about the more beautiful and better-known Taos Pueblo, and its sister pueblo, Picuris—and those tribes had banned him from their reservations. Tanoah Pueblo joined together with Taos and Picuris and the other northern Indian pueblos and raised funds to buy all the copies of the book they could find, and then burned them in a colossal ceremonial bonfire while they circled the blaze, screeching war hoops and firing off rifle rounds. The book was now out of print. The publisher refused to reissue it, for fear of reprisal. The author never returned to Taos after his house was destroyed in a fire of suspicious origin.

I promised Momma Anna that I would not write anything personal about anyone related to the tribe, nor would I include photographs, as the banned author had done. I told her I would not mention any names, and I would not reveal anything about the religion, the dances, or any other sensitive rituals, should I succeed in getting the book published.

Momma Anna warned, “I not tell you religion. We not talk religion, we
do.
Religion not think, talk—religion doing. So you not hear me talk any religion. But they knew I tell you even this—stories, way to cook, all that—they stone me, maybe burn my house down. They take revenge my relatives. My grandchildren, even
their
children be made suffer. That man write that next other book, 'bout Taos and Picuris? Those ones he take picture, those ones talk to him—they make them leave, go live Utes. They not welcome among Tiwa, not here, not Picuris, not Taos Pueblo—not them, or any they family. It sad day when they leave the People, they can never come back.”

“Why do you risk it?” I asked her.

“No one teach old ways now. They say we tell—give away power. But Tanoah children not speak Indun language. My grandma's stories,
her
grandma's stories—these dying. Our ways dying, too—feasts, baking, what we cook, thing we do.” She paused for a moment, then looked me right in the eye. “I am told do this. You want learn. This way you learn, this writing. There something here you need.”

And she was right about that. I needed what Momma Anna gave me—both with her teaching and by including me in her family. I was a child of a broken home, abandoned by my mother and neglected by my alcoholic father, who never recovered from my mother's leaving, and later from a farm accident that left him minus one arm. Since I was raised alone by a man absorbed in his own misery on a solitary plot of land in Kansas, I felt drawn to the strong sense of custom, tradition, and especially family that I saw in the Pueblo Indians. I looked on in wonder at the joyful gatherings of extended relatives that gave every Tanoah child a host of aunties and uncles, cousins, grandparents, godparents, and even extra parents when he came of age and could choose them as teachers and protectors. In contrast my childhood was lonely, isolated—even during the school year when I would take a bus nineteen miles to a small, one-room schoolhouse for my education and then ride the same, near-empty bus home to the end of its route. A still, vacant house awaited me when I returned each day, my father out in the fields working, an endless list of chores inscribed in my mind beckoning me. In the late evenings, I cared for my father after he came in from the fields to commence his long nights of drinking. When the supper dishes were done, I escaped upstairs to my room to read and write and dream, always lonely, always alone.

In writing a book, I was trying to capture—both for myself and for anyone who might read it—the guidance and teaching, the care, the presence, the love of a large family, the privilege of gathering with them for baking, cooking, feasting, even for burying the dead, which proved to be another forlorn chore for me when my father finally died.

I sifted through recipes for red chili and greasy bread and cookies and prune pies, all of which were coupled with stories. I had notes and drawings from the day I'd watched the plastering of the old part of the pueblo, where Grandpa and Grandma lived—how all the females, from young girls to old women, hauled water in buckets from the river to mix with mud and straw in wheelbarrows, and then applied it bare-handed to the walls of their ancient structure. I'd drawn the brush arbors the tribe erected in a circle for the summer ceremonies, told of the day I went gathering piñon nuts with the women in the family. There were more notes from the day of the bake. I had made drawings of Yohe swabbing the ashes out, and sketched the long paddle that Serena used as a peel to place and extract the loaves from the hot caves. Then I had jotted down how the women threw in day-old sliced white bread to toast on the hot stones after the handmade loaves were done baking, and later made
supa,
or bread pudding, with the toast—a delicacy rich with raisins and caramel sauce.

I sorted through these stacks of myths and stories that my pueblo mother had shared with me. I pulled out one sheet of paper and studied what I had written there. Two words caught my attention, and I read through my notes:

I jumped up from my own table in my cabin and dropped the paper on the pile before me. I hurried to the door and grabbed my jean jacket. Mountain, who had been dreaming restlessly on the floor beneath my feet, rose to join me. I reached down to pet him, then went to the refrigerator and removed the big bone Jesse had given me. The wolf leaped up and sat before me as I unwrapped it, a long strand of drool growing from his lip. I handed it to him, and though he was clearly excited by the juicy treat, he took it almost reluctantly. He knew the drill; this meant I was leaving.

“I know, I know,” I said. “I'm sorry—this isn't fair, is it? But my Jeep still doesn't have a door on it, and there's no way I can tie you to the back this time. I hate to leave you, buddy, but I promise I'll make it up to you as soon as I get my car fixed.” I felt a horrible pang of guilt as I went out the door.

There were still two torches burning at the cemetery as I approached. I pulled over and parked under a tree more than a hundred yards before it, cut my lights, and got out and walked the rest of the way. Two egg-shaped mounds covered in blankets were perched near the torches. When I came toward them, one of them unfolded and rose to full height. It was Momma Anna. The other figure stirred, but Momma Anna reached down and signaled, saying, “Shhhhh.”

I drew near my medicine teacher and looked down into her face, unable to make out her expression in the darkness, even with the torches just yards away. “Momma Anna, I'm so sorry—”

But she interrupted me harshly. “You should not come, that yellow hair! Why you come? You know you should not be here.”

“I have to talk to you.”

Just then, the other figure stirred again, and I saw Grandma Bird peer out of her blanket wrap. “You bathe spring?” she asked.

I had forgotten about her instructions to bathe and rub myself with the herbs she'd given me. So much had happened! “No, I—”

Then Momma Anna barked at me again, “Why you come, you not do what Grandma said? You maybe bring us all trouble.”

“I'm sorry,” I stammered. There was nothing more I could say. I rocked back and forth on my two feet, trying to decide whether to press my luck and stay or simply go away.

“Sit down!” Momma Anna ordered. She fumbled around on the ground and found a bag, from which she pulled a piece of cloth. “Cover hair.”

I did as she told me, then looked around in the black night. “Are you the only ones here?” I asked.

She sat down between me and Grandma Bird. “Others at feast. They come back soon. We have only short time, then I take Grandma, put her bed. Someone else stay tonight, I rest. Two days, my son make journey. He will go to the ridge and wait.”

Suddenly I realized the selfishness of my mission. Without regard for Momma Anna's suffering, I had come to ply her for information. I felt foolish. “I'm so sorry for your loss,” I said.

“Three days, ancestors come sundown for feast. After, they take him with them to other side of ridge.” She raised an arm draped with blanket and pointed in the direction of Sacred Mountain. “Then you, me, we talk again.”

“Okay,” I said, and I rose to go.

She stood, too. She took my arm and steered me away from Grandma Bird, who remained wrapped in an upright bundle on the ground. Momma Anna's grip was tight and her fingers—even through her blanket and my jacket—dug deeply into my flesh. “I talk you. I need help something.”

I turned to look at her.

She was facing me, but I could not make out her expression. We had walked away from the only light, and the moon had not yet risen. The night was as dark as the inside of Jerome Santana's coffin. “My son spirit almost gone,” she said, “but there still mystery.”

“I know.”

“You find out.”

“Find out?”

“You find out.”

“You mean what happened?”

“Yes, you find out.”

I swallowed. “Okay, I'll do my best.”

She threw off her grip. “Why you say that?
I do my best
…,” she mimicked me in a high, whiny voice. “You find out!”

“Okay.”

“Why you come? You know they not happy you. They talk bad about you.”

I was embarrassed, but I dared not lie to my medicine teacher. “It was selfish,” I said, looking down at the ground. “I wanted to ask you a question. No, two questions.”

“You know we don't like question over here.”

“I know, I'm sorry.”

“What you want?”

“Well, first—did you leave something in my car?”

She shook her head no.

“A stick, a carved willow stick, painted, with feathers on it?”

“You got a
nachi
?” she gasped.

“A nachi? Is that what it's called?”

“What color paint?”

“Blue with yellow.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Eeeeee.”

“What?”

“What kind feathers?”

“Nighthawk, I think.”

“Eeeeee.”

“What?”

“Don't speak this again. Don't show nachi anyone—could hurt them. You bathe herbs. I tell you few days what do with nachi.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“What next other you want ask?”

Typical. Questions never worked with Momma Anna. I felt reluctant even to tell her what else I had come for. “I wanted to ask you who Red Bear is.”

Just then a car drove by on the road to the pueblo gates, its headlamps sweeping us briefly with light.

Momma Anna drew in a sharp breath. “Your face! Why you don't tell me that?” She raised a hand to point at the claw marks on my cheek, then fixed her lips together hard, clearly angry at me. “You got mark of bear!” She reached up and jerked the cloth off my head, then turned to go back to the graveside. “Red Bear war god,” she muttered softly under her breath, without turning around.

When I got back to my cabin, Mountain had taken his revenge. He'd scratched more grooves into the inside of the door and raided the kitchen counters, turning over my coffeemaker and canisters of sugar and coffee and breaking a glass that had been left beside the sink. He'd tugged my leather jacket off the coatrack and chewed through the cuff of one sleeve, then peed on the lining. And he'd raided my laundry basket, pulling out all the dirty clothes, focusing especially on a pair of recently worn panties, which he had ripped to shreds. In the bathroom, he'd torn down the blind from the window next to the shower and chomped holes in a bottle of body lotion, my bath pillow, and a plastic tube of shower gel. He'd gathered all his objects of devastation into the center of the one main room and heaped them in a pile.

He sat enthroned in the middle of this creation when I opened the door, and he wagged his tail at me without an ounce of shame.

“Aw, Mountain! Two times in one week? You're a bad wolf!” I began to chastise him, but he paid no attention. Instead, he nervously licked and nuzzled me, his tail beating wildly and his breathing heavy, obviously only wanting reassurance that I would never, ever leave him again. I tried to make my voice harsh and rebuking, but the more I tried, the more that wolf clung to me, as if the sounds I was making were music to his ears. Frustrated, I pushed him out the door and hooked his collar to the carabiner and length of airplane wire I'd secured to the porch for times when we needed a break from one another. “You stay outside!” I commanded. But no sooner had I slammed the cabin door shut than he began scratching at it, demanding to be let back in.

I ignored him and started cleaning up the mess.

The wolf continued to pound and scrape at the door.

At least the scratches on the outside will match the ones on the inside,
I thought.
I'm going to have to buy my landlord a new door before it's all over with.

When I had hauled the broken blinds out back to the trash container and cleaned up all the mess, I let Mountain back into the cabin. I sat at the table and drank a cup of tea and ate a bowl of cereal while he nuzzled his head against my feet, just wanting the contact with me. He was panting heavily, still afraid of being abandoned again.

I moved to the floor and sat beside him. He buried his head in my lap, his tail beating on the floor. “Is that the best you can do for an apology?”

He raised his head and looked at me, lowered his ears.

“Okay, that's better.” I kissed him on the nose and then held his face against my chest. Mountain rolled onto his side and let out a big sigh. “I'm never going to abandon you, buddy. I just had to run an errand. I'm always going to come right back if I have to leave you here—I'll never leave you for long, I promise.”

He pushed his head against me, then pressed his muzzle into my hand, demanding more pets and rubs. Finally, I stretched out on the floor beside him, pressing my body against his back. He calmed with this and lay still, his eyes open, his breathing quick but heavy.

“You're worthless,” I said as I rubbed my hand along his side.

He wagged his tail with delight. To Mountain, my voice was like an angel singing, no matter what I said. All he wanted was to be near me, to smell me and feel me and hear me.

It wasn't bad being loved so dearly, even if it meant a lot of my stuff got shredded.

The sound of the car motor woke me but I didn't move from under the covers. Mountain rose and ran to the door.

A few soft knocks.

“It's open,” I called. Mountain gave a little whimper of glee and I heard his tail whacking loudly against the cabin door as it swung open. Kerry's lean silhouette was framed in the moonlit portal as he reached down, patting the wolf and speaking softly: “Hey there, Mountain. How's my pal? How are you doing?” Then Kerry called to me through the dark: “I saw your lights were out, but I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

“I'm okay,” I called back.

“So, I'll let you get back to sleep then,” he said, hesitantly.

“Okay.”

“Unless you want company…or anything.”

I considered.

“Or I could just come in and kiss you good night, and then go.”

“Okay,” I said.

I heard the door shut and his boots thud across the floor. “Man, it's pitch-black in here, where are you?”

“You're getting warm,” I teased, and then I felt him groping along the bed. He found my arm, then my shoulder. His hands were cold.

“You're all toasty. It's kind of chilly out there.”

“Yeah, I know, it will be fall before we know it.”

He brushed the side of my neck with the backs of his fingers. “Turn on your lamp there and let me see your beautiful face,” he said.

“No.”

“Aw, c'mon.”

“What's this—
you
want the light on? You spend every spare moment in a dark room developing photos.”

“I want to see who I'm kissing. I don't just kiss any stranger in the dark.”

“You know it's me. Take it or leave it.”

He sat on the side of the bed and was quiet a moment. “What is it you don't want me to see?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You do, too.” He got up and walked to the door, where he flipped on the switch that powered the ceiling fan and light.

I raised an arm and winced at the sudden shock to my eyes. “Hey, cut that out!” I clutched at the covers, but too late.

“Oh, babe.” He whispered it.

I didn't reply.

We stared at each other, measuring with our silence. Finally he came to the bed again and sat down beside me.

“Don't ask me,” I warned.

He blew out air in frustration. “Okay,” he said, and waved his arms in disgust as he got up. He walked over to the table, pulled out a chair, and straddled it from behind, facing the bed. He shook his head.

I felt vulnerable, lying supine. I pulled myself up to a sitting position and leaned against the aspen logs that framed the headboard. I kept the covers drawn up to my neck as if my secret were beneath them.

“Have you been to a doctor?” he finally managed.

“No.”

He shook his head again. Then his face softened, and he cocked his head slightly to one side and raised those thick eyebrows. “Babe, I'm going to ask.”

“No, don't ask. Please, don't ask. Everybody asks. I'm sick of it.”

He twisted his head the other way, and then he gave me that crooked little half grin of his. “Then I won't ask.”

“Good.”

“But you have to tell me, babe. Otherwise, I'll have to ask.”

A pot of coffee later, we sat at the table, our hands twisting together in a kind of passionate petting that seemed to be the trademark of our relationship. He held my fingers and stroked them, then rubbed the back of my hand with his fingers while I tickled his palm with mine. “You need to see a doctor,” he said.

“How'm I going to explain it?”

“It doesn't matter. You just make something up. You don't want it to scar for life, do you?”

I pulled my hand away, got up, and went to the little tin-framed mirror beside the door. I twisted my chin and examined my visage. “Sometimes I think I kind of like it,” I said. “Except I get tired of everyone asking about it.”

“What about Tecolote? Can she give you something for it?”

I returned to my seat at the table. “I hadn't thought about that. I'm almost afraid to go see her again.”

“No doubt. I would be.”

He stood up then and leaned over the table to kiss me, brushing his lips first across my forehead, and then on the bridge of my nose. Suddenly, he was softly brushing the wounds on my face with his lips. And then he kissed my mouth. “We wasted a lot of time talking. We could have been doing other things.” His hand moved to my breast. I could feel the warmth through my nightie.

“Want to start over?” I said, reaching for his jeans, pulling at his belt.

After our lovemaking, Kerry sat on the side of the bed. “I better go. I have some developing to do. I'm taking some of my landscapes down to that gallery in Santa Fe in the morning.”

I rubbed his back. His skin smelled warm, like clean sweat. “You never sleep.”

“I sleep.”

“Not much.”

He stood up. “I sleep enough. Sleep's overrated.”

I stood, too, and followed him to the door.

He turned before he opened it, but he didn't speak.

“I'll be all right,” I said.

His hand cupped my neck and he pulled me toward him, kissing me sweetly on the nose. “You're better than all right,” he said, with that grin of his. Then, his hand on the doorknob, he hesitated once more. “Hey, do you know some reporter named Noah Sherman?”

“Why?”

“He called and left a message for me at the ranger station.”

“He called you?”

“Yeah, left a message—just his name and number. I was in the field.”

I shook my head with disgust. “Yeah, I know him. He was at the BLM when I got suspended.”

“I thought it might have been about that whole deal. Don't worry. I got nothin' to say to him. Go back to bed, now, okay, babe?” He went out the door, pulling it softly shut behind him.

Later, unable to sleep, I rose and wrapped myself in a flannel sheet. I took the bag of herbs and the turkey feather Grandma Bird had given me and went out the door. Mountain loped ahead of me as I headed for the little stream that crossed forest land adjacent to the property on which my cabin was situated. Locals called this stream La Petaca, which technically meant cigar or tobacco pouch, because of the little pockets or basins along its course that filled up with brownish water. It was a small spring-fed brook that frequently went dry in early summer and then was usually revived again by the late summer monsoons. The late-rising quarter moon lit my path and made the water glimmer silver. I threw off my clothes and waded into the narrow rivulet, which was icy cold. I splashed myself with the water and shivered with the shock of it. Mountain drank a little from the flow and then stood on the bank watching me as if he thought I was insane. When I had wet myself down from head to toe, I stood on a rock on the bank, shaking with cold, and rubbed the rough herbs over my skin, barely touching the wounds on my face, but rubbing more vigorously on my torso. I felt a sudden glow of warmth, as if a fire had been lit within me. My scars, in particular, began to radiate and when I put my fingers to them, they felt as if they were burning. I held up the turkey feather and closed my eyes, wishing Jerome Santana a happy journey beyond the ridge. Then I threw it into the current and watched it float away. I wrapped up in the flannel sheet and Mountain and I made our way back to the cabin.