The Shaman Laughs (2 page)

The Ute knew that he had walked this trail many times, a thousand winters before the People had been given the horse, even before the bow and arrow had replaced the flint-tipped dart and atl-atl throwing stick. Charlie Moon also knew that he would be here again. Soon. Before the Apache Plume gave her last petals to North Wind. He heard a low rumbling sound, like summer thunder over the San Juans. It was the buffalo bull; the great animal pawed the sod ner-vously as he bellowed his words to the clouds. The cow continued her grazing.

Moon was suddenly distracted from the buffalo; he turned to see an old man, dressed in leather breeches and a spotless white shirt with silver buttons. His legs were bowed, his short form bent forward. The man's long hair was straight and coarse—coal black tinged with streaks of snowy white. The face was ancient and wrinkled, the nose flattened, the skin dark like polished walnut. The beaded band around the old man's head was a marvel to the dreamer; this ornament shimmered with more colors than a rainbow—amber and turquoise and cornflower and jasper and rose quartz and a dozen other hues that Charlie Moon had never seen nor imagined and would not remember after this dream.

The old man's lips sighed, then formed soundless words. "Son of Buckskin Moon, son of Alice Winterheart… will you look upon what I must show you?"

Moon nodded. There was something hauntingly familiar about this elder, but his identity was hidden from the dreamer.

The venerable figure raised his arm; he pointed to a small forest of piflon and juniper. He stared at the young Ute with an expression of unutterable sadness, then turned away. The stooped figure left the path and walked into the small forest of evergreens. Moon was not eager to follow, but he found that his legs were in charge. They made long, heavy strides.

In Middle World, thunder rolled down the broad valley, along the muddy banks of the Los Pinos, off the rocky face of Shellhammer Ridge, over the painted steel roof of the house where the dreamer slept. The west wind sighed heavily, rippling the waters of the Pinos, bending the limbs of great cotton woods and limber willows along the river's banks. Just above the foaming rapids in the elbow of the river, in the home built of adobe bricks, the dreamer heard the thunder speak. Charlie Moon also heard the nervous chatter of the cottonwood leaves, the dark whisper of the willows. He stirred uneasily, but did not escape the prison of his dream.

Moon was now aware that he was running. He wanted to turn away, but the dreamer's legs were like great pumping pistons, driving him toward some uncertain dark shore. But now, in a clearing among the juniper and pinon and scrub oak, his legs slowed to a walk. But it was very strange—the light of the sun did not touch this place of dark mists! Worse still, the old man was not here.

There was a small half-alive tree isolated in the center of the clearing; even the dry grasses did not grow near its roots… The big Ute moved toward this tortured growth and was suddenly stopped as if by a wall of smoky glass. Barely visible through the folds of darkness, Charlie Moon could see a form suspended from a branch in the tree. It must be an animal. A fresh deer carcass waiting to be butchered.

The mists parted for a moment… No… oh no… it was a human being… naked… hanging by the ankles. The face, twisted in pain, was unrecognizable through the swirling mists. The Ute could not tell whether this was a man or a woman… but he had a sense that he knew this person well. In the same way that he knew himself.

As the thunder rumbled over his sleeping body and the cot-tonwoods shuddered and rattled, Charlie Moon realized that he was struggling in the depths of a strange nightmare. But there was little relief in this knowledge.

The wretched prisoner called out to him, but Moon could not understand the words. From the darkness, a second figure appeared. But this was neither human nor animal. This apparition had matted hair, short muscular legs that terminated in shining black hoofs. And a great shaggy head. Blood dripped from the grinning lips of the beast, and fire flashed like lightning off the curved horns above its ears. The shaggy figure approached the naked upside-down human being. The right arm was raised—a slender blade of blue flame appeared in the hairy fist. As the dreamer watched in horror, the horned beast began, very deliberately, in the manner of a skilled butcher, to dismember the struggling victim.

Charlie Moon tried to break through the invisible barrier and come to the aid of this human being, but his efforts came to nothing. The hanging figure screamed and begged and screeched and pleaded. But the beast was without mercy. Now, the human being made one final cry and the pitiful sound was like that of a helpless animal being ripped apart by the claws and teeth of a merciless predator.

Moon roared in defiance at this abomination; he directed his protests to the heavens that seemed so far away from this dark place. There was no answer from the heavens. But the horned creature paused in its bloody work, then turned to observe the dreamer. There was a slight cocking of the beast's head. A recognition.

With a spasmodic jerk of his spine, Charlie Moon awoke on his perspiration-soaked sheet. His body was stretched, like the poor wretch hanging from the tree. His mouth gaped… his chest heaved as he gasped for breath like an asthmatic. The big Ute was ashamed; even as a child no nightmare had brought such raw fear. He gritted his teeth and willed the terror to depart. Oh, so gradually, he relaxed.

The rainless storm of wind and thunder rolled away to the South. But a vicious gust of wind had slammed the branch of an aspen against the window and there was now a short, curving crack in the pane. The cold moonbeam slipped in through the window once more. Refracted by the fracture in the glass, the finger of light painted a cunning geometry onto the pillow, just above his shoulder. It was a short arc… a crescent. A sign.

Now the circle was closed.

The Shaman's Home: CaRon del Espiritu

Daisy Perika sat up in bed, her arthritic fingers clutching desperately at the frayed cotton blanket. Her prayer was a solemn chant. "Oh God… Great Mysterious One… protect Charlie Moon… cover him in the shadow of your wings."

East of Ignacio, The B uffalo Pen

The old bull paused, forgetting a mouthful of half-chewed blue grama grass. The cow, unaware of his sudden unease, continued to graze in peaceful bliss. The bison raised his immense head and sniffed as the breeze whipped at his beard. At first, he detected nothing more than the pungent aroma of pifion. He braced his legs, stood perfectly still and listened; there was only the warm whisper of the west wind and the ripple of sweet water over the shining rocks in the river. A deep bellow rumbled in his throat; he blinked and scanned the familiar horizon. He watched the sea of dry grass, thirsty waves rolling and swelling as the breeze troubled the surface of the pasture. The animal raised his head to blink at the thin blue layer that separated his world from the infinite vacuum of space. A pair of red-tailed hawks circled over a giant cottonwood on the bank of the Los Pi-fios. They floated without effort, as if lost in a dream. The smallest detail of his domain appeared to be exactly as nature had ordained. But it was not. Something watched. And waited.

Homer Tonompicket was maneuvering Charlie Moon into just the spot where he wanted him, and this put him in an exceptional mood. The Game Warden threw his head back and bellowed the latest melancholy ditty from Nashville:

"Now sweet Sally's gone… my heart I would of give

her… She'd swallered enough gin -to pickle all the catfish in

Mud River
…
Sally's eyeballs they turned yeller, she'd shake and

she'd shiver…

But the bartender told me: 'What killed her was her liver!' "

Homer stopped to catch his breath and glanced at the driver of the Blazer. "Old Gene Autry—now there was a singin' cowboy that could ride and shoot and rope."

Charlie Moon grinned. For one of the People, Homer had a peculiar fascination with cowboys.

"And," Homer reminded his companion, "Gene always got the pretty girl." A dark scowl fell like a curtain over the game warden's face. "Dammit, Charlie! Why ain't there no more singin' cowboys?"

Moon eased his boot off the accelerator. "I guess nothing stays the same." The policeman turned off the blacktop of County Road 321; he shifted into second gear and steered the Blazer down the rutted incline toward the fenced forty-acre pasture.

"Old Gene, he give up his singin'," the game warden whispered in a tone of disbelief. "Went and bought hisself a baseball team." Homer, who was a purist, had terminated his annual pilgrimages to Nashville after "they" moved the Grand Ol' Opry out of the small downtown theater and into the gaudy suburban acreage dubbed Opryland. This had happened decades ago but to the recalcitrant old man it was only yesterday. Disneyland in Tennessee, that's what it was. All that was missing, he had told everyone in Ignacio who would listen, was that big black mouse that talked like a girl. "It's the end of real country music, that's what it is," he complained bitterly to other Utes who wondered why Homer cared what those
matukach
yodelers did in Tennessee.

Moon shifted into low. "You ready to tell me what this little trip is all about?"

The tribal game warden pointed a stubby finger across the dashboard and shouted over the roar of the V-8 engine. "Over there, Charlie."

Charlie Moon braked, the Blazer to a lurching stop near a stack of baled hay and cut the ignition. He followed Homer

Tonompicket toward the gate in the barbed wire fence. "There," the game warden said, pointing at a heavy chain that secured the dual steel gate at the center. "You see that?"

Moon leaned over and squinted at a new Master padlock. "This lock looks okay to me." He straightened up and looked down at Homer's face, which was partially hidden under the black Stetson's dusty brim.

"That's the whole point, Charlie. That lock ain't broke. You're my witness."

"You brought me out here at sunrise to show me a padlock that's not broke?"

"Now," Homer said, "take a look out there in that pasture. Whadda you see?"

Moon scanned the fenced forty-acre pen. There wasn't much to see. Some grama grass, a few clumps of sage, the crumbling ruin of a house at the northwest corner. And, of course, Never Stops Talking. The aged buffalo cow stood near the rectangular stock pond, oblivious to the presence of these official representatives of the Southern Ute Tribe. Except for a slight wagging of her head, she might have been a statue. The old buffalo cow had earned her name by her habit of snorting and bawling almost continually. This morning, she was unnaturally quiet. And very still, more like a taxidermist's product than a living creature. Moon frowned at the game warden. "I see an old buffalo cow. Why didn't you move her to the new pasture, with the rest of the herd?"

"Decided to leave her here. Figured Rolling Thunder needed himself a female companion."

Charlie Moon understood. A younger bull would service the herd in the big pasture, so to keep the peace the old bull had to stay behind. Homer Tonompicket, a romantic to the core, had figured that Rolling Thunder needed some female company. Homer's house was empty now, so he would know something about being lonely. Moon stretched his neck, giving the pasture another inspection. "Where's Rolling Thunder?" A dozen years earlier, there had been a contest to name the first buffalo calf born on the reservation.

"Now," Homer said grimly, '*you see what I mean. He's gone without a trace. And the gate ain't been touched. It's like…" Homer raised his arms to the sky, "… like he just up and flew away. Like old Nahum Yacüti."

"Buffaloes don't fly, Homer." Moon's stern tone hinted that he did not welcome the reference to the old shepherd who had vanished in a freak windstorm. There was still no sign of Nahum's remains, and unfinished business made the policeman uneasy. And prone to bad dreams. And there was the nightmare vision… of a helpless soul suspended upside down from a tree limb, all trussed up to be butchered by… Moon dismissed the picture from his mind. "Who's got keys to that padlock?"

Homer's voice went flat and stubborn. "I got the only set." Maybe the big policeman was wrong this time. Maybe buffalo could fly. If they had some help.

Charlie Moon was looking across the river; the sun was illuminating Sky Ute Downs in a soft yellow glow. The policeman turned to squint at the sunrise, blooming like a fiery flower over the eastern range. The bottom of a heavy cloud was a vast field of glowing embers, threatening to rain molten drops of gold onto the mountains. Fire from heaven. Or some place. He didn't look at Homer when he spoke. "You walk the fence?"

"Sure I did," the game warden snapped. "Fence is in good shape." He waited for the policeman to speak, but Moon was ominously silent. "Dammit, Charlie, I know what you're thinkin'! No, I didn't go off and leave the gate open, come back and find the buffalo wandered off, and then lock the gate and call my old friend at the poleece and tell him a bald-faced lie."

Charlie Moon was embarrassed that the game warden had so easily read his thoughts. "Okay, Homer." He patted the old man on the shoulder.

"Then," Homer demanded, "tell me what happened to a full grown bull buffalo!"

"Well," Moon said, "I expect somebody wanted some meat. Maybe a skin to sell. They probably waited until

R. T. was rubbing his hide against the fence so they wouldn't have to move him very far, then shot him."

"How'd they get half a ton of buffalo over the fence? Tell me that."

"Maybe they had a truck with a winch." He would ask Officer Sally Rainwater to check on some of the local wrecker trucks. Maybe somebody had rented one. "Or, maybe they cut him up in chunks and pitched 'em over the fence."

The game warden leaned on the fence, grasping a rusty strand of barbed wire with both hands. He nodded toward the buffalo cow. "Maybe that's the way it was, Charlie. But what about Never Stops Talking?"

Moon knew exactly what Homer meant. If someone was going to go to all this trouble and risk for some fresh meat, why not take both buffalo? Even if they couldn't haul away that much meat, the old cow would have been a hazard to anyone who spent enough time in the pen to butcher Rolling Thunder. It would make sense to shoot the cow, but there she was. "When did you move the rest of the herd?"