“It's all so fascinating,” Jillian admitted.
They rode a ways in silence, and Jillian thought of the strange beliefs of the Indians who lived not so very far from her world. Yet because of the isolation she had known, Jillian felt as if she were the most ignorant person on the face of the earth. She was only now beginning to feel more competent at her job, but she still couldn't imagine trying to live life on her own out here in the desert. Mary seemed to take it all in stride. Her husband was dead and gone, and her home was probably all that remained of that portion of her life.
“Mary,” Jillian said softly, “were you married for a very long time?”
Mary laughed. “I'll say. Sometimes it seemed forever and sometimes it didn't seem near long enough. I was married for thirty years before my husband passed on to his reward. He's been gone nearly ten years and that seems like forever.” Sorrow edged her tone.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad.”
“It's not really a sadness. It's a longing. I wish for nothin' more than to join him in heaven, but I know that my job on earth ain't done yet. When it is, God will come and take me home, but not a minute sooner.” Again they rode in silence, until nearly twenty minutes had passed and Mary declared, “There's my place over there.”
Jillian squinted to look out across the horizon. The small stone house seemed such a natural part of the landscape that at first Jillian thought it was nothing more than an outcropping of rock. As they neared, however, she could see that the little house was a combination of stone and cedar poles and even a little adobe. It wasn't anything to boast about, but it was shelter and apparently some comfort to the old woman, for she beamed proudly at the house as they came to a stop.
“My husband wasn't much of an architect, but it served us well. We always hoped to have a family here, but God never gave us any young'uns. So we devoted our time to the Navajo and Hopi. They became our children.”
“How is it that they don't hate you like they do other whites?”
Mary stared at her hard for a moment. “I wouldn't say they so much as hate the white man. I think they are simply weary of their interference and constant attempt at indoctrination.”
“But Mac said that you share the Christian faith with the Navajo. Aren't you striving to indoctrinate them yourself?” Jillian suddenly realized how her question sounded. “I didn't meanâ” Mary held up her hand. “I ain't offended by your honest questions, so don't go apologizin'. I share the light of Jesus with them through my work. I speak to them of the Word of God. The Navajo believe that words have great power. I tell them that I couldn't agree more. I speak of my Savior and His love for all people. But I don't beat them over the head with religion. I let God speak for himself, and I help them by buyin' their wares and tradin' goods with them because, frankly, their feet don't need washin'.”
“What?” Jillian was confused.
“Don't you remember the part in the Bible where Jesus washed the disciples' feet?”
Jillian hated to admit that she wasn't very familiar with Scripture, but there was nothing else to do. “I'm afraid I don't.”
Mary patted her arm gently. “That's all right. Jesus washed His disciples' feet as an act of love and servanthood. He showed them that we must come to people in love and service rather than from lofty ornate pulpits and gold-encrusted cathedrals. Jesus was tender with folks. He loved the truth into them. That's what I intend to let Him do through me.”
“What a beautiful thought,” Jillian replied. She felt a warmth spread through her at the idea of such tenderness.
“Well, come on inside. We'll need to get a move on if we're to get this wagon loaded and make it to the village before noon.”
Jillian followed Mary into the open house and found Little Sister quietly weaving in the corner of the room.
“How wonderful!” Jillian exclaimed, moving closer to see the delicate patterns of blue and white.
“She's making a blanket for her baby,” Mary explained. “Little Sister, this is Miss Danvers. She's going to help me today so that you can rest.”
The shy girl looked up, her gaze barely reaching Jillian's face.
Jillian looked to Mary. “Does she speak English?”
“As good as you or me.”
Jillian knelt down beside Little Sister and gently reached out to touch the girl.
“I'm sorry for what those women said to you in town. I felt helpless to know what to say, but I just want you to know that they were wrong to treat you so badly.”
“Thank you,” Little Sister said without raising her face. “Your words touch my heart.”
“Miss Danvers is a good friend,” Mary said. “Her name is Judith.
I'm sure she won't mind you using it.”
Jillian swallowed hard. Her lies felt even more painful to her now. “I wouldn't mind at all. I'd like to be a friend to you, Little Sister.”
The girl looked up, and this time she held her dark-eyed gaze to Jillian's. “You aren't like the others.”
“I hope not,” Jillian replied. “I hope never to be like them again.”
Little Sister nodded. “Thank you for giving me your name.”
Jillian's conscience pricked her painfully. With a deep sense of regret and frustration, Jillian straightened and looked to Mary.
“So where are the things you need loaded?”
JILLIAN'S EXPOSURE TO THE NAVAJO way of life opened her eyes to yet another facet of existence. Poverty.
The houses, or
hogans
, as Mary had called them, were crafted out of cedar poles and were octagonal in construction. None of the walls appeared to necessarily match their counterparts in length or height, giving some of the hogans a rather odd look to them. Jillian wondered how safe they were and commented on this, but Mary assured her the houses were solid and quite nice inside. She reminded Jillian not to be overly influenced by outward appearances, leaving Jillian feeling guilty for her attitude once again.
Children played happily in spite of what seemed to Jillian to be a dismal existence. When they saw Mary, they came running and ran back and forth alongside the wagon until Mary pulled to a stop beside one of the many sheep corrals. Laughing and clapping, they extended grubby little hands to receive the peppermint and licorice sticks that Mary pulled from her skirt pockets. Apparently this was a normal routine, for Mary made no announcement in order to gather the children. Mary glanced at Jillian and winked. “My ma always stood by the idea of catching more flies with sugar than vinegar.”
Jillian grinned and watched the happy children dance around with their candy. Some were barely dressed, while others wore simple cotton tunics and pants or skirts. None of them wore shoes, however, as they seemed to enjoy the warmth of the sandy soil against their feet. Jillian wondered if they ever wore shoes. She wondered, too, if they ever took baths, for the children were coated in layers of dust and dirt.
Several of the Navajo women, dressed simply in long skirts and belted tunic blouses, sat on the ground at outdoor looms. Their rich black hair was pulled back into looped buns and secured with rawhide strips, while booted moccasins peeked out from beneath their skirts.
Jillian was immediately taken in by the lovely colors that marked the patterns in their weaving and also graced their clothing. “They wear such bright colors,” she commented to Mary as she handed out the last of the candy and climbed down from the wagon.
“They use natural dyes from the land,” Mary replied, motioning for Jillian to climb down. “They are very resourceful people.”
Just as Jillian started to move, she caught sight of a stern-faced Navajo man. His appearance suggested an age somewhere near or slightly older than Jillian's twenty-three years. Straight hair touched his shoulders in blue-black ripples that waved in the warm desert breeze. He stood between two hogans that were set somewhat apart from the others, his gaze intense and clearly not one of greeting.
“Who is that?” Jillian whispered, nudging her friend.
Mary looked up. “Oh, that's Little Sister's brother, Bear.”
“He doesn't look too happy to see us.”
Just then another Navajo man went to Bear, and after speaking to him for a few moments, the two men went off together in the direction of one of the hogans.
“Bear doesn't like interference from us,” Mary admitted. “He finds our ways to be harmful to his people.”
“How so?” Jillian asked, helping Mary unload the crates she'd brought.
“Bear sees what has happened to the young girls, including his sister, and believes all white men to be corrupt and evil. He sees the cheating and manipulation of folks like Mr. Cooper and some of the army officials and believes that all whites must surely follow suit. He hates that I come here and trade with the women, yet he also knows me to be fair. And of course, he knows that Little Sister is living with me. It's kind of a love-hate relationship.”
Jillian watched as some of the women came to greet Mary. They spoke in a mix of Navajo and English, and from time to time Mary would pull one thing and then another out from her wooden boxes.
There was nothing for Jillian to do but step back and watch the trading go on. She admired the way Mary conducted business, shaking her head no when the trade was not reasonable and beaming a smile of acceptance when a match could be made. Mary neither gave her things away, nor did she take more than was fair.
Jillian thought it a rather fascinating system. Mary would take the offered pottery, blankets, and baskets and sell them to her buyer. Then she would take the money and buy goods for the Navajo and trade again for more works of art. It seemed a very self-contained system.
By early afternoon, Jillian and Mary began to make their way back to Pintan. During the extent of their stay at the Navajo village, Bear had never seemed far from where they were trading, and now Jillian could feel his piercing gaze as they drove away. She thought him to be a fierce-looking man, epitomizing everything she had imagined when the word
Indian
was spoken. Funny how she had known people back East who lumped all of these native people into one simple word: Indian. Mary had told her that the Navajo were very proud and easily angered when it was suggested that they were merely Indians.
“They are Navajo,” Mary had said quite seriously. “Just as the Hopi and Zuni are separate people, so the Navajo are separate as well.”
The back of the wagon jostled with a number of ornate pots, causing Jillian to focus on the present rather than the past. Mary had packed them carefully, using straw to keep them as safe as possible, but the deeply rutted excuse for a road would not cooperate with the rickety wagon, and some amount of abuse was to be expected.
Still, the pots seemed quite solid. Jillian had thought it rather fascinating the way the women had painted intricate designs on the various vases, water jars, and bowls. But even this wasn't as wondrous as the delightful patterns woven into the wool blankets. The items were all quite lovely and Jillian couldn't help but admire them. She wondered what her father would say about such creations. Would he see their potential to become salable products? Perhaps he would. Maybe she could even write to him about it and suggest such a thing. Then Mary would have yet another buyer for the Indian work, and perhaps she could make the people even more money.
She frowned, however, knowing that money would never fix the existing problems between the whites and the Navajo. Money wouldn't change the color of Navajo skin or dispel the prejudice of the folks in Pintan. In fact, Jillian knew money couldn't even buy the Navajo approval in the eyes of the whites. She had seen poor immigrants back home who had made good and earned themselves hefty savings. Yet they were still shunned by upper society. Just because they had money didn't mean they had manners or the cultural background to give them acceptability in the circles of Jillian's parents and friends. So if money wasn't the answer, what was?
The trip home seemed endless. The rocky red cliffs cast ominous shadows across the ground, giving the landscape a strangely painted appearance. Mary had told her of an area even farther away, which many called the Painted Desert. The play of sun and shadows upon this area of land had given rise to the name. If it was similar to what Jillian saw in the land before them, then she could well understand why it would be called “Painted.”
The patterns rather reminded her of the blankets, and Jillian wondered if that was where the Navajo women got their ideas for their designs. Glancing over her shoulder at the stack of blankets behind the wagon seat, Jillian knew she must have a memento of the day.
“Mary,” she said as they slowly neared the town, “I wonder if I could purchase one of those blankets. The red-and-yellow one is my favorite, and I'd be happy to pay top dollar.”
Mary smiled. “I saw you eyeing that one with particular interest.
Of course you may have it.” She pulled the wagon to a stop against the back side of the Harvey House and shook off some of the dust and sand that had accumulated on her dark gray skirt. “I surely do appreciate the help you gave me today.”
“I appreciate that you asked me to go. I learned a great deal,” Jillian said as she climbed down from the wagon. Though dirty and gritty from the long ride home, she felt a satisfaction in having expanded her mind. And maybe even her heart.
“Here, you don't want to forget this,” Mary said, reaching behind her to pull the red-and-yellow blanket from a crate.
“Oh, do come inside and have dinner. I can run upstairs and get my money while you eat.”
Mary looked at the angle of the sun. “I might have just enough time for a piece of Mr. Harvey's pie. After all, it's some of the best I've ever tasted.”
“We have a great chef,” Jillian said, patting her waist. “He may, in fact, be too good for my good. I've probably gained five pounds since coming here.”