Jornada del Muerto: Prisoner Days by Claudia Hall Christian Page A
Authors: Claudia Hall Christian
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fencing is down, we will never be
able to leave this building.
At the sewage treatment plant, we saw
thousands and thousands of wasps walking toward the Pen. It would
take us ten years or more to make a dent in all of these wasps. In
that time, we’d have to hide inside like hermits.
I don’t think I can live that way. And I’m
fairly certain George cannot live like that.
We’re leaving in eight
days. We have no choice. We cannot stay here any longer. Prophecy
or no, 480 days is going to have to be enough. We may as well head
to the Pueblo. We have no other place to go.
George, self-portrait
11/24/2056
I am proud of myself. I’ve just accomplished
the spiritual equivalent of the children’s game “Telephone.” OK,
“proud” is a little sarcastic.
My brother Earnesto’s spirit has been
hanging around a lot. Somehow, his fate and my journey are linked
together. Or maybe he’s just bored. He could just as easily want to
see his “perfect shaman brother” fall flat on his face. You never
know with brothers.
This morning, I asked him to find our
great-great-grandmother. The fact that we are leaving surrounded by
wasps and with less than 500 wasp-free days worries me. I wanted to
ask great-great-grandmother if we should stay or go.
Earnesto found my mother, who, as I
suspected, was with my father. He found my grandmother, who found
another relative. You can guess how this game went. Someone found
my great-great-grandmother and asked her to appear for me.
My great-great-grandmother was angry when
she appeared. She was told that I needed her help cooking an elk
fillet.
Yep spiritual “Telephone.”
My great-great-grandmother’s spirit came
tearing into the cell. She was furious that I would dare bother her
rest for something so trivial. She stood with finger raised, ready
to give me a tongue lashing when she heard the awful clamor of the
wasps outside the fence. Her face went still, and her finger
dropped. She simply said, “Oh.”
In a matter of moments, we cleared up all
misunderstanding. My great-graet-grandmother was like that in life.
She could switch from rage to calm and loving in a matter of
seconds, especially with her male children. She felt like males
were harder to control. She would have broken herself on me and my
brothers if not for our deep love for her -- and summer camp.
With George watching the door, she and I
held council. I told her everything that had happened. Our less
than 500 wasp-free days, the women, our work to get ready, and
finally our limited access out of the Pen. I even confessed to
starting this journal late.
(She laughed and said she assumed I would
start it late. As she used to joke, I was even late being
born.)
After we held council, she went to review
the situation for herself. When she returned, she asked if I would
tell her everything I knew about the wasps. I told her what little
I knew and what we had learned from the women. I told her about the
disturbing breeding project. I ended saying I thought the noise was
bringing wasps from all over New Mexico and maybe all over the
US.
She was frustrated with me for not keeping
track of how many souls I sent to the afterlife. But how could I
have kept track? There were thousands when the Pen transformed.
Right now, I’m back to sending on thousands of souls a day.
Of course, she would have done a better job.
She did a better job with everything. Better than I. Better than
anyone I’ve ever met. I asked her if human children were being
born, and she didn’t know. I asked her if any of our people
survived. She didn’t know that, either. She said I survived, and
that was good enough for her.
She hadn’t tolerated my whining as a child
and tolerated it much less now.
Then I had the oddest experience. All of my
life, she knew everything. She was the wisest person I’d ever met.
She had an opinion about every little detail of life, especially my
life. More than anything, she’d always known what to do. When I
able to leave this building.
At the sewage treatment plant, we saw
thousands and thousands of wasps walking toward the Pen. It would
take us ten years or more to make a dent in all of these wasps. In
that time, we’d have to hide inside like hermits.
I don’t think I can live that way. And I’m
fairly certain George cannot live like that.
We’re leaving in eight
days. We have no choice. We cannot stay here any longer. Prophecy
or no, 480 days is going to have to be enough. We may as well head
to the Pueblo. We have no other place to go.
George, self-portrait
11/24/2056
I am proud of myself. I’ve just accomplished
the spiritual equivalent of the children’s game “Telephone.” OK,
“proud” is a little sarcastic.
My brother Earnesto’s spirit has been
hanging around a lot. Somehow, his fate and my journey are linked
together. Or maybe he’s just bored. He could just as easily want to
see his “perfect shaman brother” fall flat on his face. You never
know with brothers.
This morning, I asked him to find our
great-great-grandmother. The fact that we are leaving surrounded by
wasps and with less than 500 wasp-free days worries me. I wanted to
ask great-great-grandmother if we should stay or go.
Earnesto found my mother, who, as I
suspected, was with my father. He found my grandmother, who found
another relative. You can guess how this game went. Someone found
my great-great-grandmother and asked her to appear for me.
My great-great-grandmother was angry when
she appeared. She was told that I needed her help cooking an elk
fillet.
Yep spiritual “Telephone.”
My great-great-grandmother’s spirit came
tearing into the cell. She was furious that I would dare bother her
rest for something so trivial. She stood with finger raised, ready
to give me a tongue lashing when she heard the awful clamor of the
wasps outside the fence. Her face went still, and her finger
dropped. She simply said, “Oh.”
In a matter of moments, we cleared up all
misunderstanding. My great-graet-grandmother was like that in life.
She could switch from rage to calm and loving in a matter of
seconds, especially with her male children. She felt like males
were harder to control. She would have broken herself on me and my
brothers if not for our deep love for her -- and summer camp.
With George watching the door, she and I
held council. I told her everything that had happened. Our less
than 500 wasp-free days, the women, our work to get ready, and
finally our limited access out of the Pen. I even confessed to
starting this journal late.
(She laughed and said she assumed I would
start it late. As she used to joke, I was even late being
born.)
After we held council, she went to review
the situation for herself. When she returned, she asked if I would
tell her everything I knew about the wasps. I told her what little
I knew and what we had learned from the women. I told her about the
disturbing breeding project. I ended saying I thought the noise was
bringing wasps from all over New Mexico and maybe all over the
US.
She was frustrated with me for not keeping
track of how many souls I sent to the afterlife. But how could I
have kept track? There were thousands when the Pen transformed.
Right now, I’m back to sending on thousands of souls a day.
Of course, she would have done a better job.
She did a better job with everything. Better than I. Better than
anyone I’ve ever met. I asked her if human children were being
born, and she didn’t know. I asked her if any of our people
survived. She didn’t know that, either. She said I survived, and
that was good enough for her.
She hadn’t tolerated my whining as a child
and tolerated it much less now.
Then I had the oddest experience. All of my
life, she knew everything. She was the wisest person I’d ever met.
She had an opinion about every little detail of life, especially my
life. More than anything, she’d always known what to do. When I
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