Death Chants by Craig Strete Page A

was leaning
heavily against Longfeather under the blan­ket. I sensed that she might fall over if he wasn't
holding her up.
    She was crying.
Softly, but crying all the same. Her pale oval-shaped face looked pinched and she seemed sicker
than she had been the day before.
    "How do you feel?"
he asked her, worry plain in his voice and face.
    "Better," she said
and I thought she was lying, probably more for his sake than her own.
    "The air here, the
doctor said it would help. It just has to, Amanda. You just have to get well," said Longfeather.
"You'll see, a week will make a real difference!"
    We sat in silence
for a time. I was over being sick. Even think­ing about dragging myself up and getting out of
there. I was beginning to feel quite another call of nature besides tossing my pinon
nuts.
    But by then, Death
Catcher was almost upon us, and my curiosity was aroused. I hoped his being there had some other
meaning than some of the things I had heard about him.
    Longfeather started
to get up to greet him, even offering to shake hands. The old man ignored him
completely.
    Death Catcher
unpacked his clay pots and began drawing a rectangle in the sand with a specially carved
stick.
    Longfeather tried
speaking to him, but the old man still ig­nored him. Longfeather turned to me. "Does he speak
En­glish?"
    I shook my head no.
"I've never heard he could. What do you want me to tell him?"
    "Just that I am
honored by what he is about to do. And I very much want to thank him."
    I told the old man
in our language what Longfeather said. The old man stared at me with an irritated expression on
his face. He spoke slowly. "Tell him to step away. His presence is not needed."
    I translated his
speech for Longfeather. Death Catcher had also said some fairly nasty things about Longfeather's
ancestry which I didn't dare repeat.
    When I was
translating it for Longfeather, I think the old man knew I left it out. I wouldn't have been
surprised if he spoke English better than me.
    Longfeather looked
to me for an explanation for why he had to move away while the old man worked. I just shrugged.
"Who can say why?" I said. "He doesn't do things for reasons that can be easily explained. Best
to humor him and move back until he finishes."
    He nodded, and
somewhat begrudgingly moved off about a hundred feet and sat down again. A lizard jumped out of a
bush in front of him and I heard him yelp in surprise. It made me smile. I kind of regretted I hadn't told him the old man wanted him
to sit naked on a cactus to complete the ritual, just to see if he was city-dumb enough to do
it.
    Death Catcher was
old, how old nobody quite knew. His white hair was thick like a pony mane and his hands were
rough and scarred and slightly crooked with his great age.
    Still his hands
moved with grace and ease as he patiently began the sand painting. He carefully measured out the
first sand, red, and sprinkled it on the ground. Then black. I watched the pattern being
drawn.
    The first thing I
noticed was that the colors were all being reversed and that he intended to leave out some of the
symbols. That was proper for a sand painting that was being done for public exhibition, for white
people.
    Death Catcher was
not working in the sacred forms. Also the old man followed a dark and very old style, said to be
a long-ago gift of the nightlands.
    He used colored
sand, cornmeal, flower pollen and several mixtures of powdered roots and bark.
    He held out his
hand and talked to the girl.
    She stared at him
blankly. Her head had sunk back until she was almost lying flat on the ground. She turned her
head slightly until she could see me.
    "Excuse me, I don't
know your name but could you tell me what he said?"
    "He wants you to
give him something."
    "What?"
    "I don't know.
Something that ..." I asked the old man a question, making sure I understood exactly what it was
he wanted. "Oh." I nodded at the old man. "He says he wants a piece