Читать книгу Little Red War Gods - Patrick PhD Marcus - Страница 11

After summoning up all of her courage to reenter the house, Doli had unexpectedly excused herself. She’d said that the Navajo feared the dead and that seeing Shima again would have negative consequences. She didn’t hug him or offer any contact information, exiting the front door before the back door had even set itself in its frame. From the front lawn, he’d watched her drive away in her old blue sedan. The haunted look she’d given him when she climbed into her car still bothered him.

For an hour Keane sat by his grandmother’s bed. When he’d first entered her bedroom the sight of her lying so still, dead, made him shake uncontrollably. Her white pants and silky white shirt tied into a bow at the collar, and her peaceful expression, caused Keane to think she might float up to heaven like a feather if he exhaled too near her tiny frame.

The part of Keane that wasn’t still in shock wondered if he would hear her voice again. He had no doubt Gans had spoken from the dead, telling him she was sorry for not living long enough to see him again, and to be strong because his life was to begin anew and there were many people who needed him. It all felt so strange and unreal. It made him miss his perpetual high, his brain’s receptors still waiting for the bucolic fuel. His bong always had the answer—relax, the world can wait. But all the pot in the world wouldn’t change the memory of that moment. He guessed Doli’s chanting and the curling smoke from the burning sage had opened the connection with Gans. It made sense even to a non-believer. Keane felt an unexpected willingness to accept, without question, the spiritual event that had just occurred.

Gently he rubbed Nascha’s ears; she was curled at his feet. “I suppose you’re going to talk to me next, girl.” As he ran his hands through her fur, his eyes traced the outline of an Indian necklace around his grandmother’s neck. It was an uncomplicated piece, leather threaded through a round, black stone. Keane felt the necklace would have looked out of place on such an elegant woman, but found instead it lent to the peaceful aura that surrounded her.

Keane sat in his car at the airport, watching his father enter the terminal. Painful memories from the last four days of dealing with the funeral had begun to overflow, threatening to put out the fires of a new and growing resolve.

Keane had never been to a funeral.

He was surprised to find the sorrow he felt was diminished by the comfort of a formal goodbye. His great aunt Merce had spoken in such a rich way about Gans—she even sang at the service—and though he’d been unable to contribute words himself, Keane gained the understanding that it was his right, his duty, to express himself. His father had cried uncontrollably and could not make the drive to the cemetery after the service. Keane had returned to the hotel to find his father sitting alone at a small table, reading a very fat book. He was glad his father was returning home. Dad seemed to be suffering more and more as the hours of mourning dragged on. Keane, for his part, beamed when he thought of Gans. Even as his whole body hurt from the loss, he still felt the love she’d shown him and carried the words she placed in his heart.

Putting his car into gear, Keane made his way to the freeway on-ramp and headed north. There was only one thing on his mind: Megan. Doli. He was sure finding her was what his grandmother had wanted. Why else would Gans have put Doli’s Navajo name in his head? He couldn’t control a smile at the thought of Megan’s surprised look when he’d called her Doli. He liked the idea that someone, a girl, from such an old culture, could wonder at anything his straightforward life and mind could possibly offer.

Keane hardly caught a glimpse of the small green sign that read Entering Navajo Lands as his Nova blazed past on his quest for Doli. Keane wasn’t sure what he expected to see when entering the reservation, but quickly began to wonder where all the people were. The reservation was only a big freeway and endless rocks, scrub, and sand. Finally, he saw a roadside stand where several older looking Indian women were selling jewelry. Pulling over, he approached self-consciously, tired from the long drive, certain they wouldn’t be able to help him. Doli was gone forever. “Hello,” Keane said. He waited for their response, his eyes trying furtively to meet theirs, but they only crossed their arms and smiled half smiles. “Can you tell me where I can…is there a city…actually a city? I’m trying to find a young Navajo woman.” The two women looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “It’s not like that. I just met her, last week, and she said she lives on the reservation with her uncle and aunt. I was guessing there must be a town near here?”

“Perhaps a necklace or a blanket would help you?” the shorter and fatter of the two women said. Her appearance was neat. She wore brown, loose fitting clothing and large blue jewelry. She smelled of lavender, or at least one of them did. She seemed apathetic yet pleasant. Keane looked at the jewelry and several rolled-up blankets while Nascha sniffed at the best smelling spots around the stand. The other woman unrolled several inches of a blanket so he could see what they were like. “They are all hand stitched,” the taller, skinnier one said.

One necklace, a simple leather thong threaded through a large, black, unpolished stone stood out to him. Seeing his interest, the first woman placed it around his neck. She smoothed out his t-shirt and centered the stone on his chest.

“Forty dollars,” she said.

Keane pulled several hundred dollars out of his pocket, giving her two twenties. She looked satisfied. “Can you tell me how I might find my friend?” he asked.

“Tell us her name,” both women said nearly in unison.

“Her name is Megan.”

“Me-gan?” The fatter woman pronounced each syllable as if they were separate words. “Are you sure?” She seemed to imply she might have intimate knowledge.

“Yes!” Keane was growing excited. “She said her Indian name was Doli.”

Both of the women laughed spontaneously. “Are you sure you want to find such a girl? The bluebird is not an easy bird to live with.” They laughed as people who are accustomed to mirth laugh.

Keane laughed also, uncertain what they meant, but happy the Navajo women were beginning to warm up, even if the joke was at his expense. “I am certain I want to see her regardless of her name. I have to consult her on a spiritual matter.”

“Very ‘spiritual,’ I am sure...” It took two minutes for the women’s laughter to die down sufficiently to allow the skinny one to talk. “Turn off the main highway several miles from here. There is a dirt road on the right that will lead you closer. You can ask for her there. But I warn you, most tourists keep to the paved roads.” Her words had an ominous tone.

He thanked the two women, climbed into the Nova and headed north, Nascha taking up her position as co-pilot. He almost missed the turn, which was obstructed by a sharp corner and tall scrub. Carefully, he guided his car onto the dirt road, causing dust to swirl and the tires to slide just enough to feel a moment of excitement. The further Keane drove, the faster he found himself driving. When he saw the first dwelling, a dilapidated trailer far from the road, he eased his foot off the gas. Soon more homes appeared. He was shocked by their poverty but couldn’t contain his excitement. When it seemed he’d entered something like a small town, a collection of nondescript dwellings, he parked his car and walked from place to place smiling at the cloudy shapes of people he could see through streaky windows.

After half an hour of finding no one about, Keane resolved to knock on a door. Just then, four young Navajo men appeared from behind a small shack. In an instant they were upon him, standing in a half circle just feet away, smelling of alcohol and sweat. The backdrop of red hills looked on impassively, more interested in the new winds which promised to soothe their antiquities. “What are you doing here?” asked the largest of the four, his eyes filled with carefully constructed rage.

Keane answered, unaware the youth’s question was less of a question than a statement. “I am looking for someone…” Nascha growled, her white teeth catching Keane’s eye. As he bent to scold her, he felt a fist slam against the side of his head, knocking him to one knee. Keane, never one to take a fight lying down, sprang upwards, his fist firing into the jaw of their leader, staggering him with the vicious uppercut. Nascha leapt straight at his exposed throat. Keane had little time to celebrate, to appreciate the warm pain in his knuckles, before something blasted impossibly hard into the base of his skull, and he was out, falling face first into the dust.

When he’d finally come to, it was dark out. Keane’s eyes took some time to adjust, but finally computed that he was in some sort of small wooden shack. What light was there filtered through the structure’s many cracks, courtesy of the crescent moon. Why the gang chose this place to drag him, Keane could not guess. His hands found Nascha lying beside him. There was a long, thin cut on her head, and the damp, sticky blood clumped on his fingers. Keane cried openly on the dirt floor, every part of him in pain; the men hadn’t been satisfied with just knocking him out.

Abruptly, Nascha cocked her head, listening.

Keane froze, stifling his tears. Were they coming back? He shrugged off the moment of terror, struggled to his feet, and made himself ready. He would not be such easy prey, not this time. Several minutes passed. Just as he thought to relax, Keane heard something moving closer through the darkness, through the corrupt wooden walls of the shed. As he swallowed, the dryness of his parched throat caused him to cough. Instantly he closed his mouth, the smell of piss and dry rot twanging the receptors in his flaring nostrils, the taste of blood on his cracked lips. Nascha didn’t move, save for the hair that had risen in a long, thick black line down her sinewy back.

The sound moved closer.

Keane thought to put his shoulder against the door but decided he should stand back so that he would have room to fight. He would make the most of his confines to gain a strategic advantage. If he could help it, they would pay. Looking around for a weapon, he spied a long, thin board. It felt good in his hand, like a baseball bat. He was ready.

A shadow appeared across the threshold. Whoever it was, they’d stopped there, making little noise, but noise nonetheless. Keane listened, his back tensing. “What the fuck is that?”

“Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh…huh, huh, huh…”

It sounded like panting.

Keane was growing frustrated. “Look, I’m going to leave the fucking reservation.” Reflexively, he patted his jeans pockets to locate his keys. They were there and so was his money, folded in a wad, deep in a front pocket.

“Huh, huh, huh…”

The panting came faster.

“The hell with this!” Keane threw the door back as hard as he could and charged out with Nascha at his heals. The door wobbled violently on its loose hinges, smacking against the inside of the shed and making a horrible racket. Keane winced, his bat up, ready for anything. What he saw surprised him. A medium sized dog with a thick body, thin legs, shaggy black fur with white boots, a white-tipped tail and a white muzzle stood before him, looking upwards as if to say, “Why didn’t you open the door sooner?”.

Keane looked relieved.

The dog continued to give Keane an appraising look, then, without warning, her black eyes disappeared beneath jets of burning blue flame.

“That is a nice trick,” said Keane, convinced that what he was seeing was the result of a concussion his Indian friends had probably anointed him with.

It was the dog’s turn to look surprised. She’d only just emerged from the darkness that had shrouded her for more than 150 years, and already a man, not even a Navajo man, was capable of seeing her for the Spirit she was. Satisfied with this reality, she proceeded to trot past him, disappearing into the black shack. Nascha followed, tail high, stride for stride, their bodies touching, the two of them already thick as thieves. “Those dip shits must have really pounded me. I could swear that dog’s eyes really were on fire.”

Just as Keane turned to retrieve Nascha from the shack, certain they needed to leave as soon as possible and preferably under the cover of darkness, a kind, feminine voice addressed him.

“I am sorry, Keane…”

Whirling around, Keane was instantly overjoyed to see Doli. He was sure he would have recognized her even in the pitch black. “Doli!” he cried, tears springing from his eyes. Keane didn’t cry as much from their reunion as from the relief he felt at having someone familiar at his side.

She embraced him lightly, gently patting his back. Keane couldn’t help but shrink from the pressure of her body against his many cuts and bruises. “You’re hurt,” she said, immediately starting to inspect his body for any obvious broken bones or bleeding.

“I am okay,” Keane said, “just hold my hand.” Carefully, Doli took his hand and they both sat on the ground in front of the poisonous looking hut.

Doli looked as thoughtful as the sliver of moon that had slid behind her head. “I would have been here sooner, but my aunt only mentioned you in passing well into the night. Rather, she mentioned a ‘tall, strange young man’ who’d said he was looking for a Megan. She thought you were after something that I am not. She says to tell you thank you for buying the necklace and that it should bring you good luck. I am sure she did not intend for anything bad to happen to you.”

“I’ll be sure not to tell her about my four new Navajo friends,” Keane said, trying to smile. As much as Keane was trying to be cool, he listened as though this woman were his friend from some past age. He imagined she shared things he should already know because their eyes always saw colors in the same way, on the same horizons, at sunrise and sunset, even miles apart.

“Come,” she said, “we should leave this place. It is several hours to my aunt and uncle’s house, if you would like to come with me.”

Keane couldn’t imagine a better idea.

Getting to their feet, Keane called for Nascha. “Here, girl.”

In answer, Nascha and her strange partner burst from the shack at a run.

Doli screamed in shock as the white booted terrier blazed past.

“What is it?” Keane said. “You know Nascha. She likes you.”

“That Dog, that is no ordinary dog! She is a Spirit.” Doli’s eyes followed the new terrier as it raced in circles behind Nascha, its blue eyes aflame, trails of sparks exploding through silvery dust.

“I think I see what you mean,” said Keane. “I just thought I was seeing things.” He pointed to one of the larger knots on his head as he looked at the dog’s unnatural eyes. Whether Doli was right or wrong about the dog’s status as Spirit didn’t really matter. He was prepared to believe anything since his grandmother’s spirit had spoken to him. What would have felt like an alien invasion just yesterday—Spirit Dogs and grandmothers talking from beyond the grave—now seemed natural, possible, real.

Doli’s face shimmered with awe for Keane. “You don’t understand. Spirits have not freely shown themselves since we lost our struggle against the white man’s advance so many years ago. The Spirits who could visit themselves upon us are now only gossip. If a Spirit has come to you, it means everything.”

Keane watched the two dogs playing. He smiled at the thought of Nascha and her new friend, the magical dog.

Doli could tell that Keane was missing the point, and though her mind swam with the possibilities and the meaning of what she’d just seen, she decided to let it drop. Still, she did not let the Spirit entirely out of her sight, and made sure to always keep at least half an eye on it.

Keane bent to one knee. “Nascha, here girl.”

Nascha immediately tore over, stopped on a dime before Keane, and kissed his face with her long, wet tongue. Keane pushed her away, laughing. As he did so, he felt the new dog rub up hard against his legs, tail wagging. He saw that Doli had backed up several feet.

“Come on, Megan. She’s great,” Keane said, shrugging his shoulders and pointing at her shyly.

Megan didn’t move.

“What’s your name, girl?” Keane said, rubbing both her ears at the same time and kissing the top of her head. He’d expected to feel something other than fur, but there was nothing unusual here, just a happy dog, eyes aflame or not. “Come on girl, what’s your name?”

The terrier seemed to understand. She backed up a step onto her haunches and barking loudly. Her eyes spat bigger sparks. Keane read the message opening up in his head. Somehow, he had known she was going to speak to him.

“Doli, she says her name is Dezba.” He half hoped she’d be impressed.

She was.

“She communicates the way my grandmother did.”

Part of Doli had already known the truth about this boy’s power. She did not consider her own meeting with his grandmother pure coincidence. Doli’s fear and surprise abating, she bent down to stroke Dezba and Nascha. Her hand frequently rubbed against Keane’s.

“Come on, girls,” Keane said, forcing his broken body into an abbreviated run. “Last one to the car has to sleep alone.”

Keane laughed out loud as Doli flew past.

Several hours later, Keane was fast asleep on a small couch in a smaller living room, Nascha at his feet, Dezba having disappeared into the night the moment they’d arrived. Doli and her aunt had patched Keane up and filled him with a large, steaming cup of healing tea. All things considered, Keane had endured an enormous amount of change for anyone only eighteen years of age. Had he known it was only the beginning, he might not have slept so easily.

The sound of delicate feet coming up behind Keane made his pulse quicken. Twenty-three-year-old Keane’s long black hair hung heavy in two thick braids. Lean, muscular and extremely tanned, it was hard to see the same man who’d so unwillingly traveled to see his grandmother just five years ago. As he turned his neck to watch his wife approach, he observed the unique angles of her young Navajo face were laced with excitement and grim resolve; he beamed at her inquisitively. At that very moment, Keane looked more like Archer than he had in years.

“What brings you to my garden?” Keane said, feigning surprise. The garden growing around them was magnificent in its scope, a fruit-and-vegetable version of the chocolate river room in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, spanning acres in every direction. At Keane’s knees were several squash plants whose large, three-pronged leaves were covered with flat-backed, grayish-brown bugs; it was one of several spots in the garden he’d been praying over for most of the morning

“It is time you left for your journey. It would not be right for you to keep the Governing Council waiting when it is you they’ve asked for without so much as an explanation why,” Doli said, ignoring Keane’s half-hearted attempt at levity. She knelt behind him, hugged him, and kissed his up-turned cheek. “But first, I have news.”

“What is it?” Keane asked, turning further into Doli’s embrace. He put a hand on the ground against his failing balance, leaving the other on Doli’s waist.

“There is news on the television. It is bizarre. News I have not found a way to understand. There was an incident with a Navajo last night. It was on the national wire, AP,” Doli said, a mixture of concern and excitement growing in her voice.

“You were watching TV?” Keane asked incredulously. “Now that is a story.”

Doli snorted disapprovingly but couldn’t suppress her smile.

Keane laughed a little but focused his eyes on Doli’s so she would know he was listening; Doli could be a bit tricky to read, and today he’d yet to figure out what kind of mood she was in. Doli’s aunt still kidded him, saying she’d warned him about bluebirds being tough to live with.

“They have video of him. A Navajo Brave,” Doli said breathlessly, forgetting to inhale.

“A Brave? This Navajo from the news is a Brave?” Keane tried to keep his tone level so he would not offend his wife by revealing his doubt. Though he knew and loved many powerful Navajo, he had never met one who legitimately walked in the spirit of the old ways, the ways common before the white man came.

“If you see his face, you will know. It is the face of the forefathers. I have seen their faces in my dreams many times. Whoever he is, he is a Brave.”