“Yeah, mouse nest,” he muttered. “The little bastards crawl into the heater ducts. I mean, if you’re a mouse, they’re perfect, right? Just mouse-sized little tubes inside a truck where people eat donuts and crackers and sunflower seeds and all those things a mouse loves. Then there’s the stuffing under the seats, and, of course, if you’re an archaeologist who spends a lot of time in the boonies, you’ve got a roll of bun wad. TP and seat upholstery make perfect nesting materials.”
Stewart rolled up the rear window, and Maureen watched the rush of paper dwindle to an occasional bit of white shooting from the vents and twirling around before it settled on the seats, dash, and her. With the rising temperature of the air, tiny little brown projectiles clattered out of the heater vents and stuck to her wet shoes.
“Stewart”—she kicked one off—“is this … ?”
“Mouse shit. Yeah.”
“Good Lord, Stewart. Have you ever heard of the Hanta virus? It’s big in this part of the world, isn’t it?”
Dusty shrugged. “Hasn’t killed me yet.”
She could imagine beady-eyed little mice, their vibrissae quivering, as they made hex signs and peed Hanta virus all over the inside of Dusty’s heater vents. In defense, she hung her head out the window and breathed. The rain felt like shotgun pellets.
“Stewart, can’t you, say, poison them, or something?”
“Yeah, but then they crawl in the vents and die, and when the hot sun heats the vehicle to about one hundred and forty, their little bodies swell up and bust. You have no idea—”
“Enough!” She raised a hand, waving for him to desist.
“Well,” he said mildly, rolling his window up, “you asked why I didn’t poison them.”
“Doesn’t the Hanta virus scare you?”
“Sure, but out here, you kind of get used to mice. I mean, they’re everywhere. You don’t hear so much about the virus on the radio these days, so I guess the disease has pretty much run its course.”
“I’m so relieved,” she wheezed, trying to find a halfway place where she could suck clean air from outside without drowning in the cold downpour.
“Almost there, Doctor.” Stewart slowed and turned off the pavement onto a dirt ranch road. “Pueblo Animas is just ahead.”
The Bronco rumbled across the Texas gate, known as a cattle guard down here, and along the graveled section of road. She wasn’t ready for the left onto the two-track that led up the ridge and across the terrace toward the site.
The Bronco slipped sideways as Dusty steered rapidly into the skid and stopped. “You want to get the hub on that side?” he asked.
“What just happened?” She was clinging to the seat.
Dusty studied her for a few seconds, then opened his door. “This dirt has a high silt and clay content. Have you ever heard the term ‘gumbo’ before, Doctor?”
Confused, Maureen said, “Not unless it relates to Cajun food.”
“Well, it’s kind of a generic term in the West. It means slick, sticky, gooey mud.” His blue-eyed stare took in her pale expression, and the bits of white toilet paper stuck to her face. “Never mind,” he said. “You sit tight. I’ll put both hubs in.”
He stepped out into the rain, minced his way to the front wheel, and bent down. Then he waded around to her side. She stuck her head out just far enough to see him turn something on the wheel. He slopped his way back to the driver’s side, got in, and slipped the four-wheel drive shifter knob forward.
Dusty said, “Just hang on and pretend you’re a kid again.”
“You mean, I’m going to be scared.”
“Just trust me. I promise that no matter what it feels like, we’re not going to crash and die.”
At the look in his eyes, she braced her hands and feet, and nodded. “Go for it, Stewart.”
R
EDCROP SAT ON THE EAST SIDE OF THE BENCH THAT CIRCLED the tower kiva, staring down at her long white ritual dress. Red spirals painted the bodice and collar. Two body lengths above her, late afternoon sunlight poured through the entry and shone on the use-polished rungs of the ladder.
She lifted her gaze and scanned the room. Dancing yellow flames burned in the middle of the kiva floor, but she felt cold. Every time air filled her lungs, an icy tingle filtered outward from her heart and rolled through her body.
The sacred Hero Twins stood on the wall across the kiva, watching her with gleaming black eyes. When she looked at them, fear prickled her belly. The priest-painters always breathed life into their artistry, and she could feel the twins’ souls; their presence permeated the chamber like a silent roar of thunder.
Redcrop looked at them from the corner of her eyes. During the Age of Emergence, monsters had ruled the world. They had eaten humans all the time. The Great Warriors had climbed to Father Sun to ask him how to kill the monsters, and Father Sun had given them lightning bolts to use as lances. The twins had saved the First People. Redcrop did not know why she feared the saviours so much, but she did. There was something scary about their fierce expressions and the lightning bolts they held in their upraised hands. No matter where she moved in the room, the lances always seemed to be pointed at her heart.
She lowered her eyes and examined the eight katsina masks that hung above the wall niches. Tufts of eagle down crowned several of the masks. Beards made from buffalo, rabbit, or coyote fur hung from their chins. Her gaze went from mask to mask, staring at the sharp fangs and polished wooden beaks, lingering on the dark, empty eyes. The
amber gleam of the fire flickered in the hollow sockets and gave them a strange haunting glow. But the katsinas didn’t scare Redcrop. They comforted her. If she concentrated, she could almost hear their voices whispering to her, trying to guide her through the grief and pain.
She exhaled, and her head tottered on her neck. All of her strength had vanished. The picture of a dried-out insect husk painted the fabric behind her eyes. She felt hollow, brittle. The only thing she had ever wanted in life was to be free, to marry a man she loved, and to have children. Now, none of that seemed to matter.
To her right, Cloudblower prepared Flame Carrier’s body for the journey to the afterlife. The Matron’s gray hair had been freshly washed with yucca soap. It spread around her face in a glistening wreath. A beautiful red macaw feather cape covered her from the waist down. The hideous stab wounds in her grandmother’s chest resembled gaping mouths.
In the past seven hands of time, Flame Carrier’s skinned face had turned a hideous bluish-purple color. Redcrop didn’t even recognize her.
Cloudblower caught the expression on Redcrop’s face. Her long white dress flashed in the firelight as she turned and gently said, “Are you all right, Redcrop? You do not have to stay for this.”
Redcrop tried to find the breath to speak. She watched the
Kokwimu
; the sacred Man-Woman, paint a line of white stars on Flame Carrier’s left arm. “I have to stay, Cloudblower. She might need me.”
Flame Carrier had needed her for more than thirteen sun cycles. Redcrop could not get over the feeling that she still did.
Cloudblower used her sleeve to wipe perspiration from her long nose. “You know that each person has two souls, a soul that stays with the body forever, and the breath-heart soul that keeps the lungs moving and the heart beating. At death, the breath-heart soul leaves the body, but it’s always near until the body is buried. Both of her souls are here in the room with us, Redcrop. She’s probably more worried about you than you are about her.”
Redcrop searched the firelit kiva with blurry eyes, praying to glimpse Flame Carrier moving about in her stiff elderly gait, but she saw only fierce warriors and empty-eyed masks.
Cloudblower turned to the array of objects laid out on the bench above Flame Carrier’s head: paint pots, yucca cords, carefully folded
clothing. She reached for the blue paint pot and swished the human-hair paintbrush around the interior. When she pulled the brush out, the bristles shone the deeply bruised color of storm clouds.
Cloudblower bent over Flame Carrier’s bony chest and painted an inverted pyramid of thunderheads above each breast. The blue-gray squares grew smaller as they neared the Matron’s nipples. Thunderheads gave people rain in much the same way that a mother gave an infant milk. Both were life.
Cloudblower set the blue pot down, and pulled the red-feathered cape away from Flame Carrier’s lower body. Stringy muscles mottled her thighs and calves. Her hip bones stuck out sharply. A sparse mat of gray hair frosted her groin.
Cloudblower gave Redcrop a sympathetic look. “Do you wish to help me with the cornmeal purification, Redcrop?”
Redcrop studied the leather pouches on Cloudblower’s belt. Tiny fangs nibbled at her backbone and belly, eating her from the inside out. She was afraid to move. She shook her head.
Cloudblower removed three leather pouches from her belt loosened the laces of the largest one, and poured a small amount of red cornmeal into her palm; then she picked up the two lengths of yucca cord that lay on the bench and draped them over her wrists.
“W-wait.” Redcrop slid off the bench and unsteadily walked toward Cloudblower. “Please, I would like to help.”
Cloudblower smiled. A few sweat-drenched strands of graying black hair had escaped her bun and fringed her face. “I think the Matron will be glad to feel your touch.”
Redcrop held out her left hand, and Cloudblower gave her two of the pouches, then draped the cords over Redcrop’s wrists.
Redcrop stood numbly. She had helped Flame Carrier with this ritual many times, but the dead had always been acquaintances, never someone truly close to Redcrop. Flame Carrier’s eyes, the eyes that had looked at Redcrop with such love last night, had turned a dull milky gray. Redcrop could barely stand it.
She took Flame Carrier’s rigid left hand and held it for a long moment before murmuring, “For our Blessed Ancestors,” then she tucked one of the pouches into Flame Carrier’s palm. The flesh had gone cold and clammy.
Redcrop removed a yucca cord and tenderly wove it through Flame
Carrier’s fingers and around her wrist. Finally, she pulled it tight and knotted it, tying up the hand so that the leather pouch would not fall out. It would be Flame Carrier’s offering to the ancestors when she reached the Land of the Dead.
Redcrop repeated the ritual with Flame Carrier’s right hand, then weakly sank down on the bench.
Cloudblower stood beside Redcrop, her hands filled with yellow cornmeal. “For our Matron’s heart,” she said and sprinkled yellow cornmeal into Flame Carrier’s eyes and over the purpled flesh of her face, cleansing away the anger and suffering that had marred the last moments of her life. Now Flame Carrier would be able to greet her Blessed relatives with a clean and open heart.
Redcrop lowered her shaking hands to her lap.
Last night, before they’d crawled into their bedding, Flame Carrier had smoothed her warm old fingers down Redcrop’s arm and said,
“I love you, child. I will see you at daybreak.”
Tears flooded silently down Redcrop’s cheeks.
Cloudblower said, “Try to see us through the Matron’s eyes, Redcrop. She is standing right here watching you cry and it’s breaking her heart.”
Redcrop reached out for her grandmother’s hand and held it in a crushing grip, fighting the grief that twisted her belly.
Cloudblower pulled a pale blue dress from the bench. The burial dress had been designed so that the entire front was open. With great care, Cloudblower slipped it beneath Flame Carrier, then worked the wide sleeve openings up over her stiff arms, straightened the dress, and began tying the front laces. The chunks of jet and polished slate around the collar gleamed. “Do you wish to help me put on her jewelry, Redcrop?”
Cloudblower reached for a bag on the bench and pulled out a handful of Flame Carrier’s favorite shell bracelets, necklaces, hairpins. Redcrop took several of the bracelets and slipped them over Flame Carrier’s wrists. Flame Carrier would love her new dress. Sky blue had been her favorite color.
Cloudblower tenderly touched Redcrop’s hand. “Now, please follow me.” She walked to the fire pit.
A pot of warm juniper-scented water nestled in the ashes at the edge of the flames. “Please take off your clothing, Redcrop. There are many
evil Spirits who are drawn by the scent of death. They hide themselves in the clothing of the living and cause disease or even death. We must make certain we have killed them all.”
Redcrop pulled her dress over her head and handed it to Cloudblower. The sacred Man-Woman took it without a word and dropped it onto the fire. Yellow tongues of flame licked up around the cotton cloth, and a cloud of smoke rose toward the sunlit roof opening.
Redcrop hugged herself. Despite the warmth of the fire, a cool breeze blew down from above, fanning the flames and taunting her bare skin.
“Cloudblower, why did she have to go out last night? Why didn’t she wake me? I always go out with her at night. She didn’t see very well. She liked to hold my arm to steady her steps. If she had wakened me, maybe I would have seen or—or heard something before …” Her voice dwindled to nothing.
A taut expression creased Cloudblower’s face while she waited for Redcrop to finish.
Redcrop said, “Do you think she tried to wake me? Maybe I was sleeping deeply and didn’t—”
“No, Redcrop. No, I don’t. I think she quietly rose from her blankets and went out alone because she wished to. None of us can say why, but she did not die because you did anything wrong. You spent every moment trying to help her. She knew that and loved you very much for it.”
Blood pulsed in Redcrop’s ears. She still had to gather the things Flame Carrier would need for the journey to the Land of the Dead: a pot of corn to eat, an extra pair of sandals, warm turkey feather socks, and a jar of water.
Cloudblower rattled the pots around the fire, and Redcrop smelled the sweet fragrance of juniper.
Cloudblower pulled the pot from the ashes and handed it to Redcrop. “There’s a strip of red fabric soaking in the bottom. Please, wash thoroughly.”
Redcrop reached into the warm water and pulled out the cloth. As she ran it over her legs and arms, she watched Cloudblower undress. She had seen the holy Man-Woman naked many times at the bathing pool, but the sight of her penis always caught Redcrop’s attention. She stared at it as she wrung out the scented cloth and rubbed it over her face and chest.
Cloudblower placed her white dress on the flames and saw Redcrop watching her. She smiled. “Are you finished with the water?”
“Yes.” Redcrop handed the pot around the fire and stood quietly while Cloudblower scrubbed her tall, muscular body.
People had gathered in the plaza outside. Redcrop could hear bits of conversation and flute music. Down by the river, a dog barked.
Cloudblower finished scrubbing the taint of death from her flesh and lifted the pot over her head. “Are you ready?”
Redcrop nodded and stood back.
Cloudblower smashed the pot down on the hearthstones. Broken sherds wheeled across the floor of the kiva.
“Now let us sanctify our souls.”
Cloudblower tossed several shiny globs of pinyon pine sap onto the coals. When they sizzled and burst into flame, she cupped the smoke in her hands and rubbed it over her freshly washed chest and face, working her way down her tall body.
Redcrop rubbed smoke over her own naked flesh. It felt warm and smelled sweetly aromatic. Smoke was a cousin to the Blessed Cloud People who brought the rain that watered their crops. Smoke consecrated.
“Good. Now come.” Cloudblower held out a hand.
Redcrop followed her to the bench where Flame Carrier rested.
Cloudblower picked up the new dress lying folded on the bench above Flame Carrier’s head and handed it to Redcrop. Beautiful, the buttery doehide had chevrons of red-and-blue porcupine quills sewn around the collar. Redcrop slipped it over her head.
Cloudblower put on a deep blue dress. Bands of white shell beads decorated the long sleeves. They glittered wildly in the firelight.
“We have done all we can for the Matron today, Redcrop. Tomorrow, we will place her on her burial ladder and Sing her to the Land of the Dead. I have a pot of venison stew warming in my chamber. Will you share it with me?”
In her entire life, Redcrop had never eaten supper without Flame Carrier. Not even once.
An unexpected sob tightened Redcrop’s throat. She reached out to stroke Flame Carrier’s tied hand.
“She would wish you to eat, Redcrop. Tomorrow will be a very long day.”
Redcrop gazed down at Flame Carrier, and the black hole inside
her seemed to swallow her heart and lungs. “I wish to stay with her for a time, Cloudblower. Is that all right?”
Cloudblower nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll keep supper ready for you in my chamber.”