Читать книгу Touches of Wonder and Terror - James C Glass - Страница 6

BADLANDS DREAMING

“You’re crazy to go out there alone.”

John Natani bristled, Italian blood boiling, but his Indian half forced him to remain calm. “That’s why I’m paying for a long distance call, Joe. I want you to go with me. It’s only a few days, like when we were kids. You remember the place.”

At the other end of the line, Joseph Eaglestaff sighed before answering his childhood friend, remembering how the elders had called them a dreaming pair. “That was a long time ago, John. I’m the one with finals coming up in a week. You’re the one who dropped out of school. What you do is your business.”

“I don’t want to be an engineer, Joe.”

“So switch majors like I did. Ask around, and see what else you’re interested in. It’s either that or stay on the reservation and collect welfare, or move into town for some crummy job nobody wants. You don’t need a vision-quest to make that decision for you; just think about it.”

“I will, when I make Ihamblecza—in the badlands.”

“The heat will boil your brains out. You won’t think of anything. This is the twenty-first century, John. Quit listening to old men and wapiyapi. They live in the past. Take charge of your own life.”

“You hate your own people,” said John, even though there had been times, as a half-breed, when he’d not been treated as one of them. But now his parents were dead, and it didn’t matter anymore.

“I won’t even answer that,” said Joe. “There’s no future for me on the reservation, and I’m getting out. You do what you want.”

“I will,” said John, and he started to hang up the phone.

“John, be careful out there,” said Joe quickly. “Even the old ones knew when to quit trying. Don’t kill yourself for a dream. John?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll be thinking about you.”

“Sure,” said John, and he hung up the phone.

* * * *

The drive north and west was stifling under a searing North Dakota sun in August. Wind from the north brought dry air that sucked moisture from John’s body, leaving his skin covered with a light frosting of salt, and making him feel itchy all over. He gassed up the old jeep at a discount station in Medora, and headed west a few miles before turning north on an old fire road skirting the edge of the national park, up towards high cliffs and buttes banded in red, black and yellow.

Here was his place of silence, peace and solitude, a place to make his vision quest as the old ones had done in the Black Hills far to the south and long before his birth. But here was his place, near his home, near the miserable land on which his people now lived with alkali water and stunted grass.

He could not identify with those who fought to return to the sacred hills. His land was here, burning hot in the sunlight.

The road became shallow ruts in tall buffalo grass, and then there was no road at all. The jeep bounced up the hill until John saw cottonwood trees to the east and traversed towards them, buckling himself into the seat and feeling the weight of the vehicle shift wholly to the downhill tires. The Little Missouri River came into view below, a muddy trickle shining mirror-like in the summer sun. He parked the jeep at a precarious angle between two trees and got out to chock the wheels with dead branches.

He threw his pack on the ground and checked the contents: a pair of gallon plastic bottles filled with water, three chocolate bars, and a package of Fig Newtons. It was enough for maybe three days, but he felt guilt. The old ones had gotten along on far less. He closed the pack and ate one candy bar while he cinched up, then covered the jeep with a green tarp and secured the four corners to trees with nylon rope. He hoisted the pack on his back, adjusted the straps, and then started down towards the river, looking back once to check the jeep. It was not visible twenty yards from the trees. When he reached an old road paralleling the river, the long walk began.

In nearby Medora that afternoon and for three days thereafter, the officially recorded high temperature reached one hundred and four degrees.

John followed the road for five miles, his mind a blank, eyes staring at the rutted bentonite, and scoria chips ahead of him. He didn’t notice the heat at first; wind blowing down from the high, colorful buttes cooled him. The road veered upwards to the north, crossing a sandy saddle strewn with the bones of some hapless, small animal, and he stopped there for a moment, breath suddenly quickening. Ahead of him lay a green valley of buffalo grass, a trickling stream carving jagged, rust-red gashes across it towards the high plateau rising on the other side, and up one ridge dark shapes were moving rapidly. Even at this distance he could hear their coughing and growling. The buffalo were here, and it was a good sign.

He quickened his step down into the valley as the road changed to trail to a single rut to a faint line of bent and crushed buffalo grass meandering past a prairie dog town long abandoned, and up a long draw towards the high plateau above him. The draw became a clay shelf, strewn with bits of petrified wood from another age; the climb was suddenly steep, his feet slipping, and sweat running into his eyes. Near the top he stopped to remove his pack and sip from the water bottle.

The ground moved.

Five yards to his right a bentonite cliff thrust upwards twenty feet to the high plateau and all along the edge the buffalo herd suddenly appeared, rushing by and growling at the man below them. John Natani felt fragile in the presence of such massive animals. He was curiously unafraid. Two bulls moved by, large as his jeep, ignoring him, then several cows and a calf, the rest of the herd thundering by beyond the edge. John’s heart quickened when a cow lurched to the edge, glared down at him angrily, and pawed at the clay with sharp hooves as a calf pressed against her. A part of him screamed in fear, another part freezing him calmly in his place, raising his arms towards the frenzied animal and speaking to it.

“I come to find the buffalo woman; I seek Ptesanwin. Lead me, so I may make Ihamblecya.”

The cow had no chance to answer. Behind her the monstrous lead bull suddenly appeared, head lowered, one terrible horn disappearing up the female’s anus, and she jumped screaming, scrambling ahead of her tyrant and away from the cliff edge. The ground trembled again, and was still.

John took the few remaining steps up to the high plateau and saw the herd moving quickly across it towards the west, through ripe buffalo grass covering the treeless plain to the horizon. When he passed them at great distance, two hours later, they were paralleling his course. John Natani found significance in this. The Ptepi were with him, and Ptesanwin would be near. He lowered his head and trudged onwards across the endless plateau.

When he reached the end of the grassy plain the sun was high. His lips and tongue felt swollen, and pack straps chaffed his shoulders raw. He stopped for a moment, took a long pull of warm water from the bottle, hoisted his pack once more and began picking his way carefully down narrow, sloping clay ledges into a canyon with no name. One moment a gentle breeze was cooling his face, but as he dropped below the edge of the plateau it seemed the furnaces of hell were unleashed upon him. His first breath of hot air rising from the canyon floor made him gasp, and his eyes were suddenly dry. There was no water in this canyon, but it had seen better times of green forests and sparkling streams. Along the bentonite shelves that were the canyon walls lay silicified remains of giant trees that had once cast shade here. Volcanoes to the south and west had killed them with ash and poisonous gases, and now their crystalline bodies glistened in the sunlight. Small Junipers clung tenaciously to scoria outcroppings in the gray clay, a hopeful sign of life and splash of green in a world of alkaline white, red and gray.

John moved across the clay, feeling it crackling beneath his feet, listening for a sound of other life and hearing nothing. The canyon laid barren, dead beneath him. Loneliness descended like a heavy cloud, urging him to turn away from this evil place. But it was a place of cleansing, he told himself, a place for turning inwards, asking questions, exploring goals and motivations. A place for Ihamblecya.

He climbed to a sandstone shelf near the canyon rim, scrambled up onto it and removed his pack. There was a commanding view of the canyon towards the west, and what breeze there was he would feel here. John removed his shirt and headband; let his black hair spill over his shoulders. He took a long pull from the water bottle, stowed it carefully in his pack and turned, sitting cross-legged to face the west rim of the canyon. Behind him, from somewhere out on the high, grassy plateau, there was a coughing sound. John smiled, raised his arms and closed his eyes to a descending sun, knowing he was not alone. As the heat seared his flesh, he began to pray.

It was ritual, prayers taught to him by mother and grandfather. He repeated them over and over until his mind drifted along with the words, observing but not hearing, present but somehow detached from the incantations. The words began to lose meaning as his mind drifted away, wandering far from the canyon heat, back to the dusty roads and grasslands of the reservation, a place of belonging far removed from the college campus he had despised and fled.

John was filled with a sense of regret, of failure. He’d only stayed a month, leaving before first exams. Of what use to his people would he be as an engineer? They didn’t need computers or high technology; simple work and dignity had been enough for thousands of years. A corner of his mind nagged at him. Of what use are you to your people just sitting here on a rock and talking to the wind and snakes and trees of stone? Why are you really here? John felt hot sweat running into his eyes and mouth, opened the water bottle and took another long drink from it. “Ptesanwin, wise one, please speak to me. Show me the way I must follow.”

He watched a blood-red sun descend beyond the western rim of the canyon, and ate a few of the Fig Newtons to silence his noisy stomach. A night breeze chilled him, but he did not put on his shirt and shivered on the ledge until the breeze subsided. His tongue felt swollen again, and he drank more water, holding it in his mouth for a long time before swallowing.

Behind him on the grassy slopes near the canyon, a coyote family emerged for the night’s hunting, greeted each other with a symphony of yelps and howls that filled him with a sense of oneness with all life. Soon after, he heard the scratching of toe-nails on rock, saw dark shapes moving among the petrified logs and stumps below him, then a yip and low growl as one of the furtive creatures sensed his presence. “Miyacapi, little four-legged ones, tell Ptesanwin I am here.” He prayed until a full moon had crossed the star-filled sky, and as the coyotes returned to their dens he succumbed to the exhaustion of unanswered prayers and fell into a dreamless sleep.

By the evening of the following day he had used up all his food and water, and he was consumed by doubt. His body was stiff and aching; dry lips had cracked open, and when he licked them he tasted blood. His mind seemed a blank. There were no answers, no thoughts, voices or visions. He was not worthy or ready, or Ptesanwin was a myth for ignorant people of the distant past. There was a coughing sound and low growls from the plateau behind him; the buffalo were still there, agitated. It was rutting season. “Ptesanwin, where are you?” he whispered. Even the coyotes avoided him that night, and he fell asleep with tears in his eyes.

He awoke when the sun was high. He was drenched in sweat. His vision was blurred by a white veil before his eyes, and there was a buzzing sound in his ears. His heart was pounding, skin turning cold, instinct screaming within him to find shade. He scrambled from the ledge and over rocks towards the canyon floor. Stepping over a rocky log, he felt a searing pain when something struck his leg. He looked down numbly as the venomous snake struck him again in the same place, and he staggered backwards onto a flat of alkali sand in shock. The snake glared at him a moment, then crawled back under the log. John felt no malice, sensing a purpose in the pain already moving up his leg. Perhaps this was his answer; he would die in this place rather than live in the white man’s world. In a coldly rational way he realized this was likely in his weakened state. But a part of him wanted to live, while the remainder dwelled in self-pity. He limped across an alkali flat and along game trails towards a Juniper-covered escarpment jutting out over a scoria-lined canyon filled with thick underbrush. The escarpment was near an occasionally used horse trail, and shade was there. His death could be comfortable; more than he deserved for an ill-spent life. Ptesanwan would hide her face from him, and smile as he died. This was truth. Tears came. Must it be this way? He pondered the question, and felt numbness creeping into his groin. Please don’t let me die, he thought. There are things I should do—but what are they?

He found a shady hollow beneath two intertwined junipers and crawled into it, dragging his violated leg behind him. Someone had camped here. He found match sticks and a piece of aluminum foil. The vacationers were gone and usually it was only rangers or ranchers who ventured this far into the backcountry. Perhaps they would check the buffalo herd, and come within signaling distance. The numbness was now in his abdomen, and he knew soon he would begin the fight to breathe as paralysis reached into his chest to suffocate him. To sleep was to die. John pushed himself up into a sitting position, back against a juniper, and stared out at the rolling hills and colorful buttes. The country he loved so dearly was killing him. Or was he killing himself? Was there no place for him in the world? Must he be thrown out? He felt sudden anger. I have done nothing wrong, he thought, to which his mind answered, you have done nothing at all.

A red sun touched the western rim of the canyon and shadows lengthened around him as John Natani fought to live, consciously willing his chest to rise and fall, forcing air in and out of parched lungs. He despaired, but then a Wambli came, and he wondered if it had been sent by Ptesanwin to sustain him. He had grown sleepy with the effort of breathing when suddenly the great bird was there, sitting on a tree branch a few feet above his head and staring darkly down at him. At first he’d thought it was a hawk, but then saw it was a young, golden eagle, and his spirits rose. He dared not speak to the bird, for fear it would leave him. Wingflapper, sacred one, carry a message for me. I wish to live. The bird watched him closely for a while, holding John’s attention as he struggled to breathe, then suddenly lifted into the air with a single downward thrust of its wings, and flew majestically away towards the southeast.

Darkness came. John felt tranquility, a resignation to what was happening, a sense of plan, of purpose, and he rode the feeling like a leaf in dry wind, closing his eyes, letting himself fall into a dream-state near consciousness. In his dream he saw small children laughing and kicking at a rubber ball in a field of buffalo grass. He warned them to beware of snakes and they smiled at him, black eyes sparkling mischievously, and then he awoke, gasping for breath. He rubbed his eyes, willing himself to stay awake. Breathing seemed easier now, but he was tired, and so terribly thirsty. His tongue seemed to fill his entire mouth.

Rutting sounds came from the east; he heard them more often now, and once he saw movement at the canyon rim. The coyotes were strangely silent this night, and yet he sensed life nearby, watching him. Even fear could not hold his attention; exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed about the children.

When he opened his eyes he was on his back staring up at a full moon shimmering past gnarled juniper branches. There was a cool breeze, and yet his body was drenched with sweat. The image of playing children lingered in his mind as he hovered on the edge of consciousness, and he felt strangely happy, even though breathing remained an effort. He had been awakened by something: a touch, or a sound. It was there again, along with a rank, wild odor, sharp in his nostrils. He sat up against the tree, wanting to sleep, peering through branches with fluttering eyelids, as though drugged. Beyond the branches, dark shapes moved in the moonlight, down bentonite slopes towards a grass-filled hollow near where he sat. They came in single file, grunting and growling, and the brittle clay crunched loudly beneath sharp hooves. When they reached the grass, some began rolling on their backs, kicking spindly legs with pleasure. John felt the ground tremble beneath him. This is a dream, he thought. He crawled quietly from beneath the tree, and sat cross-legged at the edge of the grass. Ptesanwan, I am here.

The herd seemed oblivious to his presence and continued to graze peacefully. John ignored them, for his eyes were fixed on two enormous bulls descending a clay bluff. Between them a white cow glowed beautifully in the moonlight. They moved slowly, majestically, in a straight line through the herd, the other animals moving respectfully aside to let them pass. The path they followed ran directly towards John, and he was suddenly wide awake and filled with fear. The animals came to the edge of the grass and stood before him, the shimmering cow flanked by two gargantuan bulls with lolling tongues, and menacing, amber eyes. Their hot, rank breath flooded his senses. He closed his eyes with fright.

“John Natani,” said a voice.

He opened his eyes. Before him the bulls stood closely together, drooling. Between them, clothed in a simple white robe, stood a young woman. Dark, Amerind eyes gazed out from a finely chiseled face framed by the robe’s hood. Her skin glowed like polished marble in the moonlight, slender arms caressing the shaggy manes of the sentinels who pressed closely to her.

“Ptesanwan,” said John.

“I am called that by some,” she replied. Her full lips moved, but the movement was not that of the words he sensed in his mind. Her speech was soundless, and somehow he was not surprised.

“You have lived through a dangerous day,” she said seriously.

“The Wambli you sent helped me to survive.”

“The bird sought an easy meal; I did not send him. When he saw you would live he flew away, and I heard his anger, just as I have heard your confused prayers.”

“You have come to me,” he said, wincing. With the few words he had spoken his dry lips were bleeding again.

“I come to water and sweet grass, away from the crawling people. We will sleep here this night. I hear your voice, and many others. You are full of self-pity. Must I stand before you? You do not listen to your own heart.”

The rebuke was knife-edge sharp in his mind. Was this a dream? He thought not, and summoned his courage for the moment.

“Ptesanwan, I ask for no material thing, only advice on the direction of my life. I wish to be useful.”

“Are you not useful now?” she asked, and scowled at him.

“I have no job, and I’ve dropped out of school. I don’t have any goals, and I—”

“—You care about the people, and show love for them, yet you say you are not useful. This is a foolish statement. To give your love is to give all. Your accomplishment is the respect you have for others.”

John’s disappointment was heavy in his heart, but he feared argument with the vision before him. “Is there nothing more?” he asked gloomily.

“There is, but you have already decided your course. You need nothing more from me, and you are weary from your quest. The people will tend to you, and then we will all rest.”

He was commanded, and confused. John nodded his head wearily and looked up at the finely chiseled features and glowing skin. The words escaped him before he had a chance to think. “You are very beautiful,” he said. “I wonder if you are a dream.”

She smiled then, and his heart quickened. “Your mind has chosen the image you see,” she said. “It is interesting.” She looked deep into his eyes, and then suddenly slapped the shoulders of the massive bulls beside her. “Tend to him, and I will find water.”

The bulls moved closer to him, amber eyes glaring. Only weakness kept him from scrambling away to the safety of the trees. Their foul breath was hot in his face, and he closed his eyes.

The bulls began to lick him.

Two great tongues licked at his body, moving him from side to side with a lulling rhythm, quickening his circulation until he felt tingling in his legs and hips. There was a gurgling sound; he opened his eyes and saw the white cow pawing at the ground near him, water bubbling from the depression she had made. He crawled to the place, bulls following, still licking him, and he tasted the water. It was sweet, in a land where nearly all water was alkaline. He drank his fill of it, while the bulls continued to massage him until it seemed he was a glowing flame between them.

“Come lie with me, and you will be warm tonight,” said a voice in his head.

John crawled to where the cow had settled down on dry needles beneath a juniper tree, and snuggled against her belly while the bulls pressed in close to them. She nuzzled his head as he drifted into sleep, feeling the softness of arms around his neck and smiling again as he found the children still there, playing with the ball and calling to him to join their game.

He awoke alone beneath the tree, surrounded by grass crushed flat beneath the weight of sleeping buffalo. Two rangers on horseback encountered him as he climbed up out of the canyon. He told them only about his ordeal with the snake, and they put him on a horse, themselves riding double and upwind from him to escape the terrible odor he emanated.

On the long ride back across the high plateau they saw the buffalo herd grazing quietly hundreds of yards from their trail. John searched in vain for the white cow. The rangers asked John what he did, and he said he was starting university, and they asked what he would study, and he said he intended to teach elementary school, and they joked about the poor pay for teachers and rangers. It was several minutes before John fully realized what he had said to them. He was filled with both sadness and excitement, sending out a silent promise to someday return with children for Ptesanwan to look upon, and as they rode, a Wambli swooped low over them, heading east into the rising sun, leading the way.