The Valley of Dry Bones (23 page)

“Yer tryin' to tell me that's the God's honest truth?”

Zeke nodded. “And there's more. She's been praying for you every day since you left.”

WatDoc turned away and stared out the window, his jaw set. Zeke saw his pulse hammering in his neck.

“Ever been to Pigeon Forge?”

“No, sir.”

“You don't know nothin' 'bout me or my people. Don't know my ma died when I's a baby, my daddy threw me out 'fore he drank hisself to death. Myrt raised me when she didn't hafta. I give her nothin' but trouble. Way too late to pray fer me, bruh.”

“It's never too late,” Zeke said.

WatDoc snorted. “Ever'body else I ever done wrong deserved it or prob'ly did. She didn't.”

“I could pray about that.”

“Stop sayin' that! I'm tellin' you I don't want you prayin'!”

“Sorry.”

“A'ight, we done with this. You don't be sayin' nothin' about Myrt. You don't know her. We gotta git goin'. Now where to?”

“You deal with the Nuwuwu, right?”

“Yup. Fact, I jes' come from there.”

“Take me there. My people will eventually find me there. And if you see any of them looking for me first—”

“I kin tell 'em where ya are. But them Injuns ain't gonna be happy to see ya jes' now, gittin' ready fer their funeral an' all.”

“Funeral?”

“Yeah, well, they got a different name for it. The chief's ma—she was over a hunnert. I never met her, but she's dead. They're plannin' some kinda ceremony er somethin'. You still wanna go there? We're 'bout a hour away.”

“Yes, I do.”

WatDoc drove in silence for several minutes, then banged Zeke on the knee with his fist. “Hey, since you tol' me yer name, you might's well call me Willard. Long as ya don't shorten it. No Will or Willie or nothin' like that. My aunt wouldn't call me nothin' but Willard, but she liked to be called Myrt. Never could figger that out.”

Zeke was about to respond, but God prompted him to wait.

Finally Willard said, “Ya know, she don't even know where I am. Or even if I'm alive. All she done for me and you won't believe what I done to her.”

“Don't ask,” the Lord said.

The question nearly burst from Zeke. He knew Willard wanted him to ask. But he just stared.

“I knew where she kep' her cash. She didn't have much, but I took it all. An' all she had was a rattletrap car what wouldn't git me far, but I took that too. I was so horrible, see?”

“Don't answer.”

How Zeke wanted to.

“It only got me to the state line, where I copped the plates offa one
car and popped 'em on another an' jes' kep' doin' that all the way out here. Couldn't believe how easy it was. Found odd jobs, got a new ID, met my girl, was act'lly goin' straight till she got killed. Drought thing kep' gittin' worse, I figgered out the water scheme, an' life's never been better.”

Zeke had the perfect line on the tip of his tongue, something about an unpaid bill, a loose end that needed to be tied, someone Willard had done wrong despite her loving him unconditionally. But again he felt no freedom from God to say a word.

“Somehow I gotta least let Aunt Myrt know I'm alive.”

“And that you're sorry?”

“If you knew her, you'd know she already knows that.”

“She sounds like one special woman.”

“I jes' hope she's still alive. It'd kill me if she wasn't.”

“There are ways of finding out.”

“How?”

“We make supply runs to Arizona and we send and receive mail out of Parker.”

“You kiddin'? I was there yesterday!”

Zeke prayed for every ounce of reserve he had to stay calm. “Really? What were you doing there?”

“Oh, the daughter-'n-law of the chief needed to git word to some o' her Arizona relations 'bout Meemaw or whoever's funeral. She needed to get there so fast, I used a small rig what was empty, and I bet we got there in record time. An' she needed to talk to the Indian Affairs guys 'bout somethin' too. I know those guys, so—”

“You do? I figured you'd steer clear of federal agents.”

“Ha! You'd think that, wouldn't ya! Normally I would, but it helps to have one er two of 'em in yer pocket in my bid'ness, if ya know what I mean, an' I bet ya do.”

“You've got a BIA guy on the take?”

“More'n one, but ya didn't hear that from me.”

“Wow.”

“Yer not gonna rat me out now, are ya?”

“To who? Sounds like they know all about you!”

Willard laughed. “Now ya know why I'm way past prayin' for!”

“Don't respond.”

Yes, Lord
.

“So, did you bring the tribal leader's daughter-in-law back yesterday too?”

“Naw. I jes' dropped her off in Parker. She's comin' back with her relations that come for the funeral.”

“And when is that?”

“Not long 'fore I heard ya on the squawk box, I told them Injuns she and them s'posed to git in tonight. They said the funeral's tomorrow night, only they don't call it a funeral. Somthin' else. ‘Cryin' service,' that's it. They made it purty plain I ain't invited.”

“They may not want me there either. Hopefully my people will come and get me before then.”

When they finally rumbled to within sight of the tiny Nuwuwu settlement, Willard parked at least a hundred paces from it. “Good luck. I'll be on the lookout fer yer people, and you'll lemme know how to get word to Aunt Myrt, 'kay?”

“It's a deal. You want to meet here at noon on Saturday?”

“I kin do that.”

Willard thrust out his hand and Zeke shook it, deciding it was the most unlikely outcome of an encounter he'd had in years.

As the tankers rolled away, Zeke realized he had already been spotted and was being approached by Yuma and his granddaughter, Zaltana. She seemed to be trying to pull her grandfather along faster, but she didn't have her usual grin. When they drew within twenty feet of him she broke away and ran into his arms.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and said, “Mr. Zeke, did you know my great-great-grandmaw Gaho died?”

“I heard that, sweetheart, and I'm so sorry!”

“Did you come for the Crying Service?”

As Yuma joined them, Zeke said, “Zaltana, I came to see you and your grandparents and your great-granddad. The service might be private.”

“Come here, child,” Yuma said, pulling her away and setting her down. “Zeke, my father is in mourning, as we all are. But he will want to see you, and we have much to discuss.”

Y
UMA LED
Z
EKE
to tribal leader Kaga's hut and told Zaltana to stay outside. They entered to find the eighty-year-old seated cross-legged, barefoot, wearing only a loincloth and a thin ragged shawl draped over his head. His hands were clasped in his lap with a small folded square of paper visible between his thick fingers. His chin was tucked to his chest and his breathing appeared even and deep.

“I don't want to wake him,” Zeke said.

“I am neither deaf nor sleeping, Ezekiel,” he said, raising his head. “Thank you for coming. Please sit.”

“You have my deepest condolences, Kaga,” Zeke said, leaving Yuma standing just inside the entrance to sit next to the old man and take his outstretched hand in both of his. “I am so grateful I got a chance to meet your mother.”

“Thank you. How did you hear?”

“WatDoc told—”

Kaga shook his head and turned away. “Villain,” he said. “And yet he has done us a favor. Yuma's wife, Kineks, you know her—”

“Of course.”

“She needed to get to some of our people with the news.”

“He told me.”

“He has a loose tongue. I warned her.”

“My wife is not easily warned,” Yuma said. “Especially when her mind is made up.”

Kaga said, “She had just better not bring back your daughter and son-in-law, who—”

“Abandoned Zaltana?” Yuma said. “I'm more worried she'll kill them on sight. No, she will bring back people who cared about Gaho.”

Kaga groaned. “The people who cared about my mother never left. Anyway, if they hear Kineks is in Arizona, they wouldn't dare show their faces to her.”

“Offer to pray for him.”

Yes, Lord
.

“Kaga, may I pray for you?”

“Please. Yuma, join us.”

“Father, I'd rather not.”

“Do not deny me in my hour of grief. You loved your grandmother.”

Yuma sighed and plodded over. He sat heavily on Zeke's other side, putting Zeke between father and son. He reached an open palm to each. Kaga immediately offered a firm grip. Yuma hesitated but Zeke waited until the man finally offered a limp hand.

Just as Zeke bowed his head, Zaltana appeared at the entrance. “May I sit with you too?” she said.

“No!” Yuma snarled just as his father was saying, “Yes, child, come in.”

The little girl's face contorted as she clearly fought tears.

“Yuma, let her,” Kaga whispered. “What's the harm? She so loved her Gaho.”

“We all did. But her grandmother will be livid.”

“I won't tell her.”

“Zaltana will! She tells her everything! And Kineks doesn't want the child's head filled with all this—”

“With all this what?” Kaga said. “Does Kineks believe in nothing? Not even in prayer?”

Yuma looked away. “Kineks does not pray, no.”

“Invite the child in, son. Say I insisted. I was honoring our guest. Tell
me, Ezekiel, what would Jesus say about a child?”

Zeke couldn't suppress a smile. This was like a batting practice pitch. “Oh, Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to Me . . . for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'”

Kaga leaned forward to peer past Zeke at his son. Yuma muttered, “Come in, Granddaughter.”

She leapt into Zeke's lap, her legs dangling over her grandfather. She put her hands on the men's.

“Father,” Zeke said, “I pray for my friends as they grieve the loss of their precious Gaho. Thank You for her century of life and what she meant to them. And thank You for Your Word, which tells us that You see the oppression of Your people, that You hear their cries, and that You know their sorrows.

“May You give them the peace and courage of the psalmist who said that though he walked through the valley of the shadow of death, he feared no evil because You were with him. Your rod and Your staff comforted him. For You have not despised their affliction or hidden Your face from them, but when they cry to You, You will hear.

“Turn to them, I pray, and have mercy on them, for we know that weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

Yuma suddenly tightened his grip, and Zeke could tell from his breathing that he was deeply moved. Zeke continued, “Lord, we know You are near to those with broken hearts and save those who have contrite spirits. Be their refuge and strength, their very present help in this time of trouble. I pray my friends will believe Your promise that if they will in all their ways acknowledge You, You will direct their paths.

“I trust You to turn their mourning to joy, to comfort them, and to make them rejoice rather than sorrow. Your own Son said, ‘Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.' And we know that He was moved to tears at the death of His friend, He bore our griefs and carried our sorrows, and He tells us, ‘Let not your heart be troubled.'”

At this, Zeke felt Yuma's tears on his arm.

“Father, Your Son promised He would not leave us orphans but
would come to us, and we know He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. So now blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

“I pray this in the name of Jesus, the Christ, the Son of the living God. Amen.”

Yuma gave Zeke's hand a final squeeze, then covered his face with both hands, wiping his tears. “Thank you,” he managed. “That reminded me of my childhood.”

“It did?” Zeke said. “What do you mean?”

“My grandmother used to read the Bible to me.”

“I had no idea.”

“She told you, Zeke,” Kaga said. “She said she had raised me in a religion that mixed many of our traditions with the Bible.”

“Yes, but I assumed—”

“You assumed it was an oral tradition, even the Bible.”

“I confess I did.”

“My mother was the only woman of her generation who read in our native tongue.”

“You had the Bible in—”

“In Paiute. Yes, we did. I do not recall where it came from, who translated it, or anything else about it. But like Yuma, I remember her reading to me as a child. A mission or missionaries, someone taught her to read, and then she taught me and I taught Yuma. But somehow over the years, we got away from it. That Bible does not still exist. For a long time we were a nomadic tribe, and somewhere along the way, it was lost. She recited some of it, but the younger generations, they were not so interested. Especially as they got older.”

“I wasn't,” Yuma said. “And Kineks was not at all. But your prayer was so much like what Gaho used to read to me and recite to me. And then what she had in her hands when we found her . . .”

“Sorry?”

“After you left her the other day, Zaltana said Gaho was writing. She didn't write much, and it took her a long time. She wrote in Paiute, and she shaped each character just so. Very proud to make it just right. But then she would show no one. When one of the women found her and thought she was sleeping, she saw the writing clutched in her hand. But Gaho's hand was frozen in a fist of death and only Kaga was able to remove it.”