thing I remembered was crawling out of Two Racer's back door to find
something breathable. The night danced with fire, a remembered fire that was not my own, fire
(hat came in bottles and made the head burn and ache with forgetting.
The white girl and
Longfeather were sitting there, big as life, wrapped in a heavy Navaho blanket, watching the sun
come up.
Now in the back of
my mind, which had been scorched in a fire, was the idea that I might throw up a hugeness,
something like the last two years of prison food in one big sprawl. Now here these two were
messing up my big moment.
"Hey," I said—not
much of an opening but then I was kind of dizzy.
"Oh, didn't know
you were there," said Longfeather. "Hey, you speak English!"
"Grunt it is more
like it," I said sourly. "What are you two doing out here anyway?"
"Waiting for Death
Catcher to come. Do you know him?"
I did but I didn't
talk about it. He was a brujo and a bad one or so the old people said. He had black gifts and saw
things in the wind best left unseen, so it was said.
"What do you expect
from him?"
"He promised to do
a sand painting for her, something special for her, something he only does for a few people.
Quite an honor, don't you think?"
I didn't say
anything about the suspicion that grew suddenly in me but he had made me curious. "Why did he
choose to do that?"
"Possibly out of
respect for my late father. They were clansmen and related, by marriage if not by blood," said
Longfeather. He even talked like a white man.
I stared out across
the desert and the feeling of sickness began to pass. I thought, as the cool morning air passed
in and out of my body, that I might yet live to see the day. I reserved that judgment about
everyone else.
"You know much
about Death Catcher? What they say he does?"
"Just that it's
supposed to be special."
"Yeah, I've heard
that too," I said but didn't speak of the other things I had been told, the dark
things.
I heard something
and turned to look over my shoulder. The air was clear as a diamond, and my Indian heart seemed
to soar on the wind as I looked on the desert again.
The desert was as
white as an owl's belly. Off in the distance, at the bottom of Black Mesa, I saw the lonely
figure of Death Catcher, with a woven sack of clay jars on his back. He was a long way off, almost an hour's walk from us. The old
ones say he casts a vulture's shadow as he walks. Maybe they are right.
The three of us sat
there in silence, staring at the rising of the sun on the desert.
It was peaceful,
calm like the dark eye of a storm.
The only sound was
an occasional rasping cough from the girl.
The desert has a
kind of beauty that is not always there for one to see. It is like a mirage that vanishes without
warning, becomes a dull, flat deadly hell with no place for man. There was no sense of that now
on this morning. Today there was only great beauty, rare and fine.
I don't know what
Longfeather and his white girlfriend saw on that morning when they looked at the desert or if
they looked at anything else but themselves, which is a way white people have of seeing the
world.
But when I looked
at the desert, I saw the old dead sea shining like a glowing pool of turquoise. I saw the bones
of long-dead beasts rise on dusty wings and bone-white legs and fly and race across the face of
the desert's ancient heart. Dead snakes coiled in trees a thousand years dead, waiting for birds
with wings of dust. And the living, those I saw too. Lizards stalked and stabbed their tiny prey,
bloodless dusty insects with the taste of forever in them. Eagles mated in the air in graceful
golden arcs, and the sand stirred gently in the wind that was the very wind of freedom and life.
There was no prison here, just the aching beauty of far far away.
I turned to look at
the white girl to see how she was taking the desert at dawn. How white people will react to
things is not always easy to figure.
She
something breathable. The night danced with fire, a remembered fire that was not my own, fire
(hat came in bottles and made the head burn and ache with forgetting.
The white girl and
Longfeather were sitting there, big as life, wrapped in a heavy Navaho blanket, watching the sun
come up.
Now in the back of
my mind, which had been scorched in a fire, was the idea that I might throw up a hugeness,
something like the last two years of prison food in one big sprawl. Now here these two were
messing up my big moment.
"Hey," I said—not
much of an opening but then I was kind of dizzy.
"Oh, didn't know
you were there," said Longfeather. "Hey, you speak English!"
"Grunt it is more
like it," I said sourly. "What are you two doing out here anyway?"
"Waiting for Death
Catcher to come. Do you know him?"
I did but I didn't
talk about it. He was a brujo and a bad one or so the old people said. He had black gifts and saw
things in the wind best left unseen, so it was said.
"What do you expect
from him?"
"He promised to do
a sand painting for her, something special for her, something he only does for a few people.
Quite an honor, don't you think?"
I didn't say
anything about the suspicion that grew suddenly in me but he had made me curious. "Why did he
choose to do that?"
"Possibly out of
respect for my late father. They were clansmen and related, by marriage if not by blood," said
Longfeather. He even talked like a white man.
I stared out across
the desert and the feeling of sickness began to pass. I thought, as the cool morning air passed
in and out of my body, that I might yet live to see the day. I reserved that judgment about
everyone else.
"You know much
about Death Catcher? What they say he does?"
"Just that it's
supposed to be special."
"Yeah, I've heard
that too," I said but didn't speak of the other things I had been told, the dark
things.
I heard something
and turned to look over my shoulder. The air was clear as a diamond, and my Indian heart seemed
to soar on the wind as I looked on the desert again.
The desert was as
white as an owl's belly. Off in the distance, at the bottom of Black Mesa, I saw the lonely
figure of Death Catcher, with a woven sack of clay jars on his back. He was a long way off, almost an hour's walk from us. The old
ones say he casts a vulture's shadow as he walks. Maybe they are right.
The three of us sat
there in silence, staring at the rising of the sun on the desert.
It was peaceful,
calm like the dark eye of a storm.
The only sound was
an occasional rasping cough from the girl.
The desert has a
kind of beauty that is not always there for one to see. It is like a mirage that vanishes without
warning, becomes a dull, flat deadly hell with no place for man. There was no sense of that now
on this morning. Today there was only great beauty, rare and fine.
I don't know what
Longfeather and his white girlfriend saw on that morning when they looked at the desert or if
they looked at anything else but themselves, which is a way white people have of seeing the
world.
But when I looked
at the desert, I saw the old dead sea shining like a glowing pool of turquoise. I saw the bones
of long-dead beasts rise on dusty wings and bone-white legs and fly and race across the face of
the desert's ancient heart. Dead snakes coiled in trees a thousand years dead, waiting for birds
with wings of dust. And the living, those I saw too. Lizards stalked and stabbed their tiny prey,
bloodless dusty insects with the taste of forever in them. Eagles mated in the air in graceful
golden arcs, and the sand stirred gently in the wind that was the very wind of freedom and life.
There was no prison here, just the aching beauty of far far away.
I turned to look at
the white girl to see how she was taking the desert at dawn. How white people will react to
things is not always easy to figure.
She
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