PROLOGUE
The knock had been anticipated and the lone occupant glanced casually at his watch as he slowly crossed the room. Peering through the peephole, he found the usual emissary stroking his bushy mustache between forefinger and thumb, lurking apprehensively at porch-lights’ edge. He swung the door open and invited his guest in from the cool spring air with a wave of his thin tan hand. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you guys, so damn prompt,” he said with a stiff South American accent. The messenger seemed slightly removed this evening, a distant look on his face, his hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets; perhaps preoccupied with other matters, he thought. With no response forthcoming, he turned, shook his head and re-crossed the room, his visitor following in close tow. From the small telephone table drawer in the corner he retrieved a manila envelope. He turned, addressing the visitor again: “Here’s the package to take back to our friend. It’s the proof he wants.” He paused a moment before extending the envelope toward him. “And I believe you have something for me in exchange.” He smiled. The visitor nodded, pulling his hand from his right pocket, returning the smile coldly, and reaching deep inside his jacket.
In a flash, a whispered whoosh bounced through the room and the resident’s brown-skinned body staggered back against the wall with a thud, the envelope clenched in his hand. His eyes glazed over and drifted slowly down his chest, toward a rapidly expanding crimson splotch. Life began its quick retreat as his knees buckled and he slowly crumpled. A red streak followed his downward creep along the wall until his body settled limply on the floor in a pooled position, the envelope resting silently at his side. A sardonic smile grew strangely across his now sallow face. He slowly closed his eyes as the final vestiges of life left through the wall, the strange grin eternally etched on his face.
The visitor calmly walked across the room, replacing the 9mm into its modified shoulder holster inside his jacket, again rubbing his bushy mustache in contemplation gazing back at the lifeless body and its grin. Death always intrigued him. He leaned close to the wall and coolly pulled the curtain back with the edge of a finger for a view of the suburban street. Assured of the quietness of his actions he gazed around, taking stock of the home. With unwasted motion, he pulled latex gloves from inside his jacket and onto his hands. He strode slowly back across the room to the corner table dropping to one knee and carefully removing the table’s drawer and quickly setting it on the floor. From an outer pocket he pulled a second envelope and placed it in the back of the drawer among the other papers before replacing it and rising back to his feet. With a powerful thrust of his hand, he toppled the small table from its usual spot, spilling magazines and the telephone to the floor in the general direction of their former owner.
He casually, yet hurriedly, roamed through the small house, rearranging the décor, but searching methodically through drawers and closets, tapping the floor with his feet in corners, looking for any hiding place. As he went he displaced pictures, throwing any valuables into a sack he’d brought for the occasion with minimal noise. His search of the master bedroom was completed as he eyed the metal frame computer desk in the spare bedroom he’d been in before with the now dead man. He crossed quickly, glancing at his watch for a time check. Finding 2 thumb-drives, some paperwork but little else, he threw them into the sack before pulling the CPU tower from its place and setting them in the hallway. In a closet he found a small file cabinet hidden behind a bunch of clothes strewn across it. Throwing the clothes onto the room floor he pulled open the drawers, searching the files and pulling anything related to his briefing. In the second drawer he found the file he was looking for and put all the materials out into the sack. He’d found what he’d been told to get.
He looked through the remaining closets and bathrooms before returning to the front room, examining the ceilings and walls before quietly overturning the coffee table and looking under the rug. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he sliced the cushions from the sofa and chair, discarding them on the floor. He looked around, taking final stock of the home before returning to his former associate. Avoiding the pooling blood, he knelt next to him again, pulling the envelope from the now chilling grip; replacing it with the handset from the toppled phone. He patted his pockets for a phone before picking up the envelope and stood motionless for a moment, noting the dead man’s grin again, before he grabbed the tower and sack, quietly leaving as he had come. His task was completed, as instructed.
********************
The secure line flashed in the darkened, dungeon-like room. A smallish, shadowy figure lifted the receiver, answering without a sound.
“He’s gone to bed.”
“Do you have the package?” the figure growled.
“Yes. I’ll update you on my return; it will take me a day or so to assure that the rest of the matter is handled as you directed.”
“Good. I take it you have alerted the others, then?”
“I will be handling that as you wished over the next few hours.”
“Very good. Take care of the other details and my man will meet you upon your arrival to retrieve the merchandise. Remain available for the next week and then you can take an extended vacation on the company.”
“That will be fine. You know how to reach me.”
The connection clicked off and the sinister, diminutive presence slunk into the darkness of an oversized chair. A scornful laugh echoed softly through the vault-like room.
DAY ONE
THE TREK HOMEWARD
Michael Kincaid, the newest of admittees to the Federal Bar, quietly made his way to a seat in the middle of the majestic courtroom’s first row. He leaned a tattered satchel against the glossy mahogany railing, looking past the counsel tables to the ornate bench, unoccupied for the moment. He tried to push down the dry lump in his throat, but with minimal luck.
Michael glanced nervously around, noting the finely tailored suits that were quickly packing the large room. He felt oddly out of place in the off-the-rack threads his parents had bought him for graduation. He noted the obvious age difference between him and most of his newly found colleagues. Gazing down at his scuffed, five-year old cowboy boots, he felt out of place. The lump grew thicker. He fought the notion that the Federal court was no field for rookies, yet despite his near six-foot frame, Michael felt suddenly small. He looked around for water, wondering if he had time for a quick drink from the fountain he’d noticed in the hallway. He quickly decided he couldn’t take a chance. It was already 8:28.
He tried to collect himself by thinking of the job at hand. Leaning forward in his chair, he pulled the case file from the satchel, his mind racing through the major points of his oral argument. He opened the file and scanned quickly through the short written brief. He felt a growing sense of confidence and liked again how well the motion flowed, melding law with fact. This eased the dryness in his mouth a bit. He was well prepared; he’d get through this just fine despite his friends’ warnings of possible disaster. After all, it was just a simple request for a continuance; he couldn’t get in too much trouble. He’d managed much more complicated motions already in his short career, in state court. Everything would go smoothly. What could possibly happen?
He’d quickly reviewed the court’s posted calendar, which revealed a fairly typical day, twenty or so motions. He’d gotten lucky and his matter was third. For the newly admitted federal practitioner it seemed a pleasant omen for his first day in this new world. Undaunted and unimpressed with his mind’s reasoning, the dry lump kept its hold and Michael grumbled to himself about remembering to bring water the next time. First on calendar would be a motion for remittitur, followed by an order to show cause for non-appearance at a deposition and then his matter. With his request for a continuance unopposed it would only take a few minutes and he’d likely be back in the LA sun in fifteen minutes total, thirty tops. Nothing to this federal stuff; just like state court, he thought, calming himself. The dry spot, however, had other, persistent ideas and he swallowed hard trying to suppress it.
“All rise,” a bailiff suddenly boomed at exactly 8:30. “The District Court of the United States of America, Central District of California, is now in session. The Honorable Daniel Deal, Chief Judge, presiding.”
From a hidden door in the paneled wall behind the bench emerged a parade of law clerks, court clerks and bailiffs, followed by the black-robed Danny Deal. The Real Deal. The most powerful judge on the Los Angeles federal bench. It was an amazing sight, majestic and far different from anything Michael had ever seen in state court or on TV, or had even been warned about. In a few moments he would have his first appearance in federal court and before the Honorable Judge Deal, no less. Michael Kincaid was completely terrified and the relentless lump now made quick progress.
The bailiff bellowed the first matter, English v. Reed. With that, the opposing attorneys walked through the gate in the mahogany railing to their respective counsel tables. The courtroom quietly came to order.
“Anything to add to the moving papers, counsel?” Demanding urgently, the old man’s voice resounded powerfully through the room.
“No, Your Honor,” the older, graying defense attorney stated from the defense side of the courtroom.
“Aaaaa . . . yes, Your Honor, on behalf of the plaintiffs there is one other thing I’d like to add . . .” the second, much younger attorney attempted from the left.
The voice calling from the bench cut him off immediately. “Counsel, why is this not in your moving papers?”
“Well, Your Honor, I was . . .”
“Counsel, you do know the Local Rules, don’t you?” The lawyer didn’t quite answer fast enough and Judge Deal, now obviously annoyed, continued. “Well, counsel, you seem young and rather unfamiliar with our procedures here, so let me ask you,” his eyes sternly focused on his quarry, “they still teach the Local Rules in law school, don’t they? And you do know the Local Rules . . . don’t . . . you . . . coun . . . sel?” His voice tapered off in obvious disdain.
“Uh, well, uh, yes. Your Honor.”
“Then you know that everything must be contained in the moving papers unless extraordinary facts exist. Do you have extraordinary facts, coun . . . sel?”
“Uh, well, uh . . .”
“Fine. Motion denied. The judgment stands as entered. Take me up on appeal if you like. Next matter!”
Instantly the bailiff bellowed, “Krindle v. Morrison.” The acid increased in Michael’s stomach and the dryness edged out onto his tongue.
This time a single attorney stood and approached counsel table.
“Good morning, Your Honor.”
“I suppose you might think so right now, Mr. Barrett, but tell me why your client can’t show up to his deposition.”
“Well, Your Honor, as I told you two weeks ago, he is not a party to the action, merely a witness. He simply does not have the time to do it right now. My client is a well-respected Beverly Hills orthopedic surgeon and therefore extremely busy with his patients. We’re in the process of scheduling it for July. It is very difficult with his surgical schedule.”
“July? Counsel, didn’t I tell you I wanted that deposition to proceed within the month the last time you were in here? Now you come in here, waste more of the court’s time and tell me that your client simply can’t get to a deposition that I’ve ordered he attend going on three months now. All I can assume is that the good doctor doesn’t feel my orders are as important as his! You, on the other hand, should have known better!” The Real Deal’s voice was now very firm.
“Your Honor, I understand your concerns, but I don’t have absolute control over my client, besides the . . .”
Michael distinctly heard what amounted to a collective gasp from the gallery. The old man sat up from his perch, his eyes narrowing on the man standing behind the counsel table.
“I warned you the last time you were in here not to try my patience any longer. Rule One of practice is, if you can’t control your client, then you shouldn’t be his lawyer. You know that, counsel. You and your client are playing discovery games on my time and I’m not going to tolerate it any longer. You, counsel, are in direct contempt of my order.” A loud bang came from the gavel bouncing off the walls. “And I am sanctioning you $2,500 personally, forthwith, for your past violation of the Court’s continuing discovery order. Further, I’m going to give you a little time to think this problem through in the hopes of coercing your future compliance. The court also summarily finds you in civil contempt for your continuing violation of the court’s discovery orders. The court wishes to attempt to persuade you to comply with its order. Bailiff, escort Mr. Barrett to the lock-up. We’ll try again tomorrow and see what arrangements have been made for compliance.”
“Your Honor, that’s outrageous.”
“Outrageous would be $10,000, sixty days on the finding of criminal contempt and notification to the State Bar. Want to try me, coun . . . sel? Now get out of here and figure out how fast you can get your client to that deposition. You hold the keys to your confinement, counselor. Or better yet, have the good doctor come down here and waste a little more of the court’s time. I’ll explain it to him personally and you can go home. Your choice, coun . . . sel. Either get your client to that deposition or get him in here and you’ll be in compliance with my order and I’ll rescind the civil contempt. Defendant is ordered back tomorrow morning. Perhaps, Mr. Barrett, you’ll have figured out a way to comply by that time. The Marshal’s Office will make a telephone available to you.”
“But Your Honor . . .” the defeated barrister weakly interjected.
“That’s enough, Mr. Barrett. There are twenty others behind you on calendar today and you’re not going to waste the court’s time . . . or theirs. Marshall Johnson, three phone calls and then to lock-up.”
“Yes, Your Honor” and a United States Marshall appeared and motioned for the newest visitor to Club Fed. The sunken attorney glanced back through the gallery to the door before reluctantly shuffling toward the bailiff. Michael watched in horror as he finally disappeared through the door hidden in the paneled wall. He slumped against his chair back, stunned, growing even smaller, as the dry lump completely took over his mouth with the passing seconds.
“Next case!” the Real Deal bellowed.
“Mason v. Carrico, Inc.” the bailiff called.
“Oh, shit” the young lawyer mumbled as he reluctantly rose.
“What was that, counsel? I have pretty good hearing for an old man, but I couldn’t quite make that one out. Hurry up, I don’t have all day. Or are you trying to waste my time too?” His stern eyes scanned the gallery.
“Ya, ya, yes, sir, Your Honor. I mean, uh, no, sir.” He scrambled sideways down the row of lawyers, clumsily tripping over patent leather shoes as he went. Stumbling through the gate he announced, “Michael Kincaid on behalf of plaintiff” as his satchel hung up on the left side of the gate, stopping his progress with a jolt, spilling his paperwork to the floor.
“C’mon, counselor, let’s get this show on the road,” the Real Deal blasted from his perch. Michael turned full circle and made a quick kneel and swoop of the papers scattered on the floor, turning his case-file into a jumbled, crumbled mess in his hands, his satchel dangling from his pinky. He rose, noting faces pressed into hands, a few forced blank stares desperately suppressing grins on heads turned to opposite walls and the occasional jaw-dropped expressions of the gallery. The lump now had full control.
With papers sandwiched between his hands, he reversed direction and made his way to the counsel table, plopping his former file and the satchel onto the table. Mercifully, the paperwork only scattered, none finding route to the floor. Collating the paper like a deck of cards, the newest federal practitioner could feel the two imposing eyes descend upon him, now affixed squarely on their next victim. Michael tried desperately to swallow the lump and settle his quaking voice. When he finally looked up, the Real Deal was immediately on him.
“Anything to add to the moving papers, counsel?” he demanded.
“No!” Michael nearly shouted. An undercurrent of chuckles resonated through the gallery. The old man’s gavel banged hard with a shout of “Order!” Oh God bounced off the inside of Michael’s brain and through his mouth to the rustling room. “I mean, no, sir, . . .uh, Your Honor,” he stammered. “Everything is contained in the moving papers.”
“Fine. Now we’re getting somewhere. Motion denied. We’ll see you here for trial in thirty days, counsel. And coun . . . sel, make sure you’re ready, no further continuances. Madam clerk, please set this matter for trial on . . . let’s see . . .” The lump had now completely taken over and his knees felt oddly shaky. Michael steadied himself, leaning over his hands cemented squarely on the edge of counsel table. “Uh, I believe the twenty-second at nine is available, if that’s workable on the clerk’s calendar.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” a mousy voice squeaked from the desk at the base of the massive bench. “The twenty-second will be fine. No other matters on the trial calendar.”
“How’s that for your calendar, counsel” the voice boomed back at him.
Michael swallowed hard, somehow getting out “Um, uh, I guess that will be OK . . .”
“Counsel, you’re speaking for your client and the firm. I assume you understand that. So I’ll ask you once again, is the twenty-second good for you and your client?”
“Uh, yes, Your Honor, the twenty-second is perfect.”
“Thank you, counsel. See how easy that was? Very well, the twenty-second. I presume that you are acquainted with the Local Rules, counsel, and have no extraordinary circumstances that would prevent you meeting the timelines.” The Real Deal wasn’t asking, he was telling.
“No, Your Honor, that will be fine. Thank you,” Michael meekly added, and the novice barrister madly stuffed the paperwork into his satchel as he spoke.
“So ordered. We’ll see you for trial on the twenty-second. Tell Mr. Shelton that I expect him to bring you back with him for trial . . .since you set the date” came the voice.
“Um, OK. Yes, sir, I’ll tell him” and Michael turned abruptly, heading swiftly for the mahogany gate, the lump now out in front, leading him to safety. This time he lifted the satchel over the railing and made a much more graceful exit through the gallery. Through the courtroom door he made a quick left, heading straight for the sign marked “Men’s Room.”
**********
A large smile broke across the driver’s face as he recalled that first day, speeding down I-40 towards Needles at seventy-five. It had been an adventure that often brought him a wry chuckle. Now, nearly twenty years later, he could almost even laugh at it. Not so much when Judge Deal recounted the same events as an example of how not to make an appearance before him. The judge didn’t tell the story every time he guest lectured in the classes Michael had taught in Federal Trial Advocacy at his alma mater, but most times. Over the years he’d taken some ribbing from his opponents and friends, but less so these days. He now had the reputation that came with nearly twenty years in the middle of the Los Angeles federal litigation wars.
Michael numbly listened to the radio blaring the details of the city he’d left many miles behind. The top of the hour led with the usual O.J. Simpson trial updates. There’d been another drive-by shooting in the Compton area, the announcer flatly reported. A four-year-old dead. No arrests yet. Believed to be a result of the feud for territory between the Crips and Bloods in the South Central area. The City of Angels was clearly not at peace. “Authorities continue their investigation into the death of a Van Nuys resident earlier this week now calling it a homicide” the newscaster droned. “Anonymous sources closely aligned with the ongoing investigation have revealed that the man may be linked to a possible smuggling operation, but have not ruled out the act as a simple home robbery gone bad. Police have no solid motive or suspects at this time. In other news, a fiery crash on the Ventura Freeway left one female dead and two others critically injured . . . .” The distant report raged on as Michael grimaced. He flicked the radio off, happy to finally be putting L.A. further behind with each passing mile.
He continued on silently for several miles until a smile crept slowly back over his face, his thoughts finally returning to that first day. He chuckled as he remembered the looks in the gallery that day, thinking of what a curious adventure his LA life had been, as the vehicle sped past the sign atop the Colorado River bridge simply stating, “Leaving California.”
**********
The shadowy figure leaned back into his oversized chair in the dimly lit room. His beady eyes pierced the darkness in subconscious sweeps of the room. The past few days had been a living hell. The operation, Code EZL, had been dangerously close to being compromised. The many years of planning, preparation and now execution had nearly been frustrated due to the abysmal possibility that his own security may have been breached.
But dead men told no tales, nor would this dead man’s effects. In a few more hours, his man would be delivering the materials to Anderson that would close the matter once and for all. In a day, the whole sordid affair would all be over. A nice, neat little package with no one the wiser, thanks to the help of his contacts at Justice. They should be securing the site now and he should have their preliminary report by mid-day.
The eyes closed slowly as he mumbled, “Blackmail me, will you?” He chortled to an uneasy rest.
**********
It was a half hour before sunrise when Michael passed the idle helicopters of Grand Canyon Air and the unmanned National Park Service entrance gate. A left at rim’s edge, a couple more miles, and in the distance he could see the waning lights of the El Tovar Hotel beckoning him to an awaiting dawn performance. To the east, the blackened curtain had opened, with the darkened horizon faintly giving way to a progression of midnight blue.
Michael parked and grabbed his coat, hurrying toward the hotel’s balcony. He had just enough time to make it to his seat before the sun ever so slowly peeked above the mountains somewhere off in New Mexico. With its first rays splashing at the South Rim, the colors of the canyon began to awaken themselves. The green of the pine trees on the North Rim showed themselves first, the red sandstone mesas now glowing to the north as Michael closed his eyes, envisioning the light streaming down the Mokidugway Pass into Monument Valley. Opening his eyes, he noticed how the light had now slowly flickered down to the whites of the wind-whipped canyon top. Ever so slowly, the morning light began to lick its way farther down the South Rim’s limestone crown, picking up speed as it reached the sheer canyon walls, hurtling its way toward the floor. Down and down it went, advancing its rays toward the mist-shrouded Colorado River below.
An exposé of reds, greens and browns, rivaled nowhere in the world, now lit up before him and Michael thanked his good timing. He knew that in the canyon no two sunrises or sunsets were ever the same. Once it was over, each one remained only as memory, never to repeat again. With each passing minute the colors changed shades, a beautiful woman trying to decide which coat to wear this day.
His thoughts drifted from the majestic beauty the canyon offered to the native Hopi and Navajo peoples who had inhabited these lands for centuries and to the surrounding area’s largely unknown significance. He turned and gazed back to the jutting San Francisco Peaks where the Diné believed their gods summered, then back to the now fully lit chasm from where the Peoples believed their forefathers had emerged onto the earth through a reed from the underworld. His thoughts were now focusing to the friends he’d soon see. He grew anxious to press on in his drive toward Saturday dinner and the old stories his friend Joseph’s grandfather would tell.
Michael returned to his vehicle and started down the slow Park Service road along the canyon rim toward Cameron. With each passing mile the view of the canyon changed. He bypassed the normal turnouts with locals selling their jewelry, instead picking up speed as he angled down the twisty road leading out of the park.
It was nearing noon when the Explorer finally reached Kayenta, twisting northward through the town towards Monument Valley. Miles in the distance to the southeast stood the first sentinel, Church Rock, guarding the entrance to the valley of carved monoliths. Ahead, with each passing minute, the Valley’s magnificence grew. About five miles from the base of Fourth Mesa, Michael slowed considerably. To the caravans of tourists that passed this way, the rutted pathway jutting left was an inconsequential offshoot of the road that meandered through the giant monuments lacing the valley and ornamenting John Wayne films of old. He edged off the roadway heading south of the Three Sisters and Gouldings’ Trading Post and instantly retreated a hundred years into the past.
The Explorer slowly bounced down the path, its navigator trying unsuccessfully to dodge the numerous potholes before curving away from the foot of Fourth Mesa and the Sisters. Ahead he could see the line of power poles making their way across the desert towards Gouldings. A lucky break for the Begays when Goulding agreed with his neighbor Hosteen Begay to allow them to tap into it many, many years ago in exchange for letting it cross his land. Just beyond the poles he could see smoke drifting aimlessly in the still afternoon air from Mama Begay’s outdoor Navajo oven.
As he pulled to the front of the house, dogs came from every direction barking their welcome. Michael switched off the engine and sat patiently, knowing it would be a few minutes before Joseph’s mom would appear and he could politely step out. Such momentary waits were demanded by the etiquette of this foreboding land, the Navajo Way as they called it. The Navajo would never have the effrontery to step on to the land of another without first being invited, unlike white European culture, which rudely and historically barged in wherever they wished.
Not for the first time, he noted the home’s traditional simplicity. It had been built in the same manner as all Navajo hogans had been built since First Man and First Woman constructed their home near the place of their Emergence from the canyon. It had four main support pillars, each aligned with the cardinal directions, the front door oriented to the east to greet the rising sun. Along the north wall ran a weathered overhang. Beneath it, on a leveled dirt porch, sat the three rocking chairs he’d spent hours in with his friends Joseph and Kevin. Across, and to his right, sat the old, earthen sweat lodge, cracked and decayed over weathered time. Next to that sat the Navajo oven, wafting delicious aromas of piñon, juniper and sage. Michael rolled down the passenger side windows and caught a whiff of the baking fry bread. With each taste of the aroma, memories of his old friends raced through his mind.
His thoughts traveled to the likely goings-on inside. Mrs. Begay would be preparing the usual Saturday meal, as she had done for many years. It had become a tradition with their Corn Clan relatives over the years. Although Mama Begay had lived a hard life in this hostile land, Saturday dinners were always had.
Widowed by Vietnam at twenty-six, she had essentially raised and provided for her five children alone. Joseph’s father had been killed in some far off rice paddy for a country that rarely counted him a son. Her Corn and Bear Clan relatives had helped, but mainly she had done it on her own, selling jewelry and sheep over the years, richly deserving the admiration most had for her. Despite meager earnings, she had always provided for the Clan’s weekly meet for Saturday dinner. Sometimes there were many, sometimes sadly only herself, but there was always Saturday dinner and everyone was welcome. Michael, though unannounced, would be especially welcome, but then again, everyone was at the Begay home.
**********
The buzz from the intercom caused the pursed eyes to open to an alert, active stare. A secretary’s voice announced that Anderson waited. The pacing figure shadowed in near darkness stopped, seemingly pleased with the intrusion, and barked for the subordinate’s admittance. “Perhaps this is finally over,” he thought, slinking into his chair, flipping on a desk light. Anderson softly closed the door behind him. “Let me have that,” he growled impatiently, his pudgy hand motioning with a quiver toward the envelope that Anderson held.
Anderson slid the envelope over the front of the desk, its momentum taking it towards the stubby hands that anxiously waited. “There’s also a computer outside and these,” the junior reported, setting the files, some disks and a few other items on the desk. Pulling the envelope closer to him, his stubby hands fumbled with the seal before finally ripping it open, yanking the papers from inside. He quickly flipped through the pages until stopping at the last one. His beady eyes narrowed as he stared into the memo for several moments. He abruptly grabbed the papers from the desk and slammed them into the desk’s top drawer.
His voice airily cracked, “That will be all.”
“Uh, yes, sir” Anderson replied, withdrawing quickly, happy to be away from the strange little man who’d been acting even stranger lately.
Left alone in the dim light, he bent forward and slid from the chair to his feet. He again began pacing back and forth, his hands clenched behind his back, moving with a jitter along the edge of the light released from the small desk lamp. With his every step followed a bent, squat shadow, his distant stare suggesting that something was still inexcusably wrong.
Over and over in his mind he pondered the plausible threat the memo contained on its last page, “Did you think I’d trust you? Unless you have all copies, you’ll get yours soon!” Questions without answers pummeled his mind. Stung by the note, he fumbled for acceptable answers. His own insurance had turned against him. Had he acted too hastily or was this just the idle threat of a former associate gone greedy? His man had gone through everything, hadn’t he? He searched through the files finding another copy, calming himself. Things will be fine, he assured himself. Besides, his friends would find any other copies. The stubby fingers twisted among themselves. He reasoned this didn’t warrant alerting the Old Man, not just yet. He could handle this matter himself. He returned to his seat. He slunk back and uneasily settled into the oversized chair, throwing his squat legs over the corner of the desk, landing them with a thud. He needed to think. He’d gather a new plan and then brief the Old Man with a slightly bent version of their associate’s untimely death. Hopefully he need never know the entire truth. But he needed to be told something; he’d called twice already.
**********
From the half-opened door Mrs. Ellen Begay finally emerged. She was a short, portly Navajo woman of sixty-three. She wore a white linen dress, speckled with the turquoise and silver jewelry that traditionally adorned Navajo women. A brilliant smile rose across her face as she immediately recognized the driver and animatedly waved for him to come join her.
Michael stepped from the Explorer to the required sniffing and approval of the dogs. After a few seconds, their duty done and finding no treats, they departed in various directions and Michael walked over to the welcome of a warm hug from Mama Begay. The cheery, weather-worn woman invited him to the kitchen, the gathering place in the Begay home. Michael took a seat in a wooden chair at the dining table as she headed for the refrigerator offering something cold to drink, returning with an Orange Crush. With a polite smile she set it on the table then quickly resumed her cooking as though nothing had stopped her for even an instant. After a few moments, she quietly asked, “What brings you to Saturday dinner?”
The question was justifiably curious, yet politely reserved. A more direct query, like “What are you doing here?” though thoroughly acceptable in western culture, would be far too intrusive for the genteel manners of a traditional Navajo woman such as Ellen Begay.
She listened, splitting her time efficiently among the variety of dishes being prepared, while Michael recounted the years since last he’d seen her, though he was sure she had earlier been updated on most of it from Joseph. Regardless, she reacted to the stories as if it were the first time she had heard them, partly out of Navajo courtesy to the speaker and partly out of her joy at hearing them first hand. The Navajo reservation could be a desolate, lonely place and conversation could be sparse. Tradition would not allow her to ask too many questions, so she would simply glance back if something needed clarifying. Otherwise, she listened attentively while she worked.
Michael gave her the standard story. After graduation and a year with the firm, he had taken a risk and started his own, barely making ends meet for the first couple of years, mostly on simple state court matters. He recounted the firm’s expansion on the heels of a couple of high-profile murder cases. He stumbled a bit and became fidgety after relating that he and Lori had carved out a nice little life together.
He paused for a few moments before saying that over the years he had saved some money and, what with Lori now gone, there wasn’t much left for him in Los Angeles. He’d tried plenty of cases and didn’t need any more right now. So he’d downsized his trial work, become “of counsel” to his own firm, packed his bags and headed for home-cooked meals at as many places as he could hit. He turned toward Mama Begay and a slight smile came back across his face. The Begay home just happened to be first on his list, he concluded, and his voice trailed off. He became noticeably distant.
The silence was mercifully broken with the crackling of gravel as an old green pickup pulled into the front yard. Two women sat motionless in the truck allowing the requisite couple of minutes to pass.
“That would be my Bear Clan cousin and her sister’s daughter up from Shiprock. You picked the right day for Saturday dinner, Michael. Tonight are the Spring dances and sing. Many people will come and they’ve come up early to help with the preparations. It will be good to visit with the Bear Clan. They have not come for a very long time.”
Michael remained at the table while Mama Begay went to greet her visitors, shortly returning with the two new guests. Michael rose and was introduced to Joyce Naggie and her niece Mary, now a sophomore in high school her aunt proudly announced to Mama Begay, seemingly embarrassing the young girl. The four took seats around the kitchen table and the two older women began relating the goings on of their respective clans.
Ellen Begay began with the general happenings around Keyenta and the Begay home. She spoke simply of how Joseph had eventually returned home after medical school and was now the chief medical officer at the tribal hospital in Window Rock. In true Navajo tradition, and without even a glimpse of boastfulness, she understated his friend’s accomplishments.
She omitted that her son had graduated from college with a 3.8 and a double major in biology and chemistry. That from his junior year on, every major medical school in the country had pursued him. That he had turned down full rides to Harvard and Stanford to accept a similar offer in the surgery and public health programs at the University of Arizona. He’d completed his residency at the Mayo and by the time he was finished he had literally hundreds of offers for more money and status than most could ever dream of. In the end, and without a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Joseph Begay chose to return and answer the needs of his own people, accepting a lower paying, entry-level position with the Indian Health Service. Over the years his skills had elevated him to what amounted to the head medical authority for both the Navajo and Hopi tribes.
Mama Begay continued by relating that daughters Janet and Scarlet Beth were both married, soon to bless her with grandchildren, she hoped. Jaxson still helped with the sheep and some of the silverwork for the jewelry that the family matriarch crafted. Mrs. Naggie smiled earnestly and proudly for her cousin. The young girl sat motionless, detachedly taking the room in, occasionally intently studying the faces around her, but not saying a word.
And of Hosteen Begay, she reported that all was well. He helped where he could, but spent most of his time with Jaxson and the sheep at his hogan and sweat lodge high up on Fourth Mesa. “Grandfather will be here in an hour,” she exclaimed with urgency, and the three women unanimously withdrew from the table, immersing themselves in preparations as Joyce Naggie offered her account of the state of the Bear Clan. Her sister was still working with her husband selling jewelry over near Cameron so Mary had been staying with her for school and they began speaking about things in Shiprock.
Michael noticed that the young girl was glancing at him every so often as she prepared her dish. Somehow he felt as if she was wondering what this white guy was doing out in the middle of the reservation, which was perfectly understandable and he kind of laughed to himself. He glanced up to her and gave her a polite smile . She smiled back softly preparing the squash, the reserved and pleasant smile of a Navajo, the corners of her mouth upturned just slightly on her round brown face. Her eyes diverted down to the squash, the common shyness of the people evident, but Michael also sensed something else as her eyes rose a few moments later. There strange sense of awareness not usually found in a teenager, particularly in a young Navajo girl. She seemed different in some way, perhaps a sense of something odd, but perhaps that was just the changing times.
The cousins were finishing their updates and Mama Begay returned to the table to offer Michael another soft drink. He politely accepted and excused himself to go find one of the old rocking chairs to the side of the hogan. He sat down and then looked northeasterly toward the redness of Fourth Mesa 10 miles in the distance and to its right, somewhere out there, Fifth Mesa and the Mokidugway. He rocked slowly, wondering to himself why she hadn’t spoken of her youngest, Johnson Junior. He pondered the question for a moment, concluding that he would learn of his exploits later. He slowly drifted off to sleep; exhausted from the road, but glad to know that dinner, a sing and the sweat lodge would be the order of the evening.
**********
The squat man had just finished reading the debriefing sent over from Justice. Based on the finding of drugs and a large sum of cash in a bedroom floor-safe, the case had been preliminarily ruled another senseless murder attributable to the LA drug turf-wars. The case really had no leads and investigators truly doubted they would ever solve the case, unless someone turned on the shooter. The consensus seemed to be that the city was just that much better off. One less drug dealer and no one really cared if the case was solved anyway. Just what he’d hoped for.
What wasn’t there was what disturbed him. No paperwork of any significance had been found, despite thorough searches by both his man and the agency associates from Justice. But there had been outsiders involved at the scene and his man had said nothing about a safe. That had to be checked out first and then if necessary he could expand his own search. And he’d have to talk to the Old Man soon. He’d called again. He’d get this going and then get back to him.
**********
The screams gathered his attention toward the mangled vehicles across the street. He darted toward the wreckage to see if he could help, greeted by the tortured steel that was her former car. He recognized it immediately. He called to her, but the only answer came from the plaintive wail of the sirens approaching in the distance.
Michael awoke with a tremor. He focused his eyes back toward Fourth Mesa, wondering if he would ever rest peacefully again. He glanced around, noting thankfully that he was alone. He purposely turned his thoughts toward a scan of the distant horizon, far across the San Juan into Utah. He searched out the small cliff that made out the Mokidugway and thought about its legendary beginnings.
Hosteen Begay had told him that long before the dawn of motorized vehicles, the Navajo and their Hopi neighbors had long shared a problem. The land was rich with beauty, but poor of water, game and trees. From their native lands they could easily see Fifth Mesa at the end of Monument Valley, the Colorado Plateau, with its pine trees looming two thousand feet straight up. Hundreds of years before the great explorers of Europe were even born, an ancient shaman was visited in the sweat lodge by the Yei gods. They told him of a pathway that led to the top of Fifth Mesa. In his vision, the shaman was told that he should follow this pathway and at its end he would find the game and wood to help his people survive. The shaman followed the spirit’s words and when he returned days later, he told the people of the vast forests filled with deer, elk and rabbit.
For many, many years, the Navajo and their neighbors had used the path and respectfully hunted and logged the area at the top of the Mokidugway, taking only what they needed. In time they built a chute, which quite inventively allowed logs to be vaulted to the sand, over a third of a mile below. For centuries, the tribal peoples used the lands beyond the Mokidugway to tame their unforgiving homeland below.
Then, after centuries of struggling to survive in these inhospitable lands came the struggle not even the Yei could help them win. It started so innocently. First, a couple of pale-skinned men began hunting atop their sacred lands. These were eventually followed by the loggers who claimed the right to bring down wagonloads of timber from the plateau to build the towns of the expanding white culture. Over time, the Mokidugway was unceremoniously transformed from a sacred pathway to a wide, unpaved logging road rising among the cliffs between the Valley of the Gods and the Goosenecks of the San Juan River. Down the Mokidugway came truckloads of timber from clear-cutting operations. Soon, the deer and elk retreated deeper into the forests. The sacred gift from the Yei was forever changed. It was no longer theirs.
Despite the transformation, it remained a remarkable place, albeit a bit off the beaten path. Michael had first gone there with Joseph during college and still considered it one of the most breathtaking sights he’d ever seen. They had arrived at sunset and had the view almost to themselves. Only one lone tourist, busily studying a map and desperately trying to locate where in the hell he’d made that wrong turn, shared the view. From the perch, it seemed you could see forever in any direction but due north, that view kept secret by the remains of the dense pine forest. To the southwest he’d followed the course of the San Juan River until it met up with the Colorado, which then meandered for a hundred miles to the west before finally entering the canyon. Above the canyon, the San Francisco Peaks leapt skyward with majestic fury, standing as sentries to the summer residences of the Kachina and the Yei. To the southeast stretched the checkerboard lands shared by the Hopi and Navajo. A gigantic game board for the Kachina and Yei to play from their homes in the mountains.
Farther south, the White Mountains led west to the Salt River Gorge, eventually flowing to the open deserts of Phoenix and the saguaro-filled basins of south-central Arizona. Slightly further to the west, First, Second, and Third Mesa sprung up south of Kayenta, finally leading to Fourth Mesa, near Joseph’s home, stepping toward them across central Arizona. As night came, Michael and Joseph had watched the blinking lights of descending airplanes on approach to what they guessed must be Gallup or Phoenix.
A slight movement along the foreground of Fourth Mesa drew Michael’s daydreaming eyes away. His vision strained to make out the silhouette of a lone man approaching in the distance, a black dog walking at his side. He leaned back in the rocker, closed his eyes again and drifted back to the memories of the Mokidugway. Hosteen Begay would be arriving in about fifteen minutes.
**********
Anderson closed the door behind him, his de-briefing with his superior complete. He hadn’t liked what he’d finally heard. One operational man down, a temporary shutdown progressing and a potential security breach. What should have been a simple operation was turning into a serious mess. Over the last couple of weeks, the little man had kept him largely in the dark; this latest meeting seemed to be something of an exception. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know exactly what. Strangely though, something also told him this might turn out to be his own salvation. He’d never truly liked this assignment. He was a professional, a military man, and he longed for his days with naval intelligence. Nevertheless, duty demanded that he do what could be done to assure that the operation would not be compromised. He’d better contact AZ, just in case, and reassure himself nothing was abnormal. He’d also better get a computer guy on this possible security breach ASAP.
**********
Hosteen Begay seemed as he always had, perhaps just a little more bent with age. In his right hand he carried his walking stick, an intricately carved piece of cedar that had been given to him when he was a young man. Joseph had told him one time that it was the stick used by Chief Manuelito on The Long Walk, the Navajo version of the Trail of Tears. In 1864, after a series of uprisings on their traditional lands, including a daring attack by 1000 warriors led by Manuelito against Fort Defiance, Arizona, the Navajo were given a choice, either face the wrath of Phil Sheridan’s troops or walk to Bosque Redondo, near Ft. Sumner, New Mexico, hundreds of miles away. With no real choice the diyin diné e, the Peoples, began The Long Walk. Thousands died along the way, the few that survived found themselves in a place having its own troubles adapting, after the Lincoln County War and Billy the Kid. As the story went, Manuelito spent his 4 years in Bosque Redondo praying to the Yei for a return to their homelands and carving on his walking stick. When they were finally allowed to return 4 years later, a young boy named Henry Chee Dodge accompanied that aging warrior back to eastern Arizona. Dodge would later become the first Tribal Chief and before Manuelito died, he had passed the walking stick to Dodge. Dodge would in turn mentor a young Hosteen Begay and eventually began to teach him in the old ways. In time the staff was passed from Dodge to his student, the old man approaching, or so the story went.
To his left bounced his ever-present friend and companion for more than a decade, barking his greeting in the decreasing distance. The bowed man was dressed in his usual white linen shirt, blue jeans and boots. His wizard-like appearance was accentuated by his frosty white hair, pulled back into a ponytail, befitting of the well-respected shaman he’d become to the People. The lines in his face told his weathered life’s story of nearly ninety years, yet the alert eyes and wide smile still spoke of the young man inside.
“Greetings, my young friend. What brings you to Saturday dinner?” the old man politely inquired.
“To see you and the rest of the Corn Clan. To enjoy your food and sweat lodge,” Michael replied.
“This is good. We shall have time later to talk, my friend . . . but first I must see if I can be of assistance and help to get the sweat lodge ready.” He disappeared toward the kitchen to politely announce his arrival.
Down the road, and almost as if cued, Michael could see the telltale dust. Joseph was approaching. How he always showed up just after his grandfather’s arrival was always a marvel to Michael. It was almost as if somehow elaborately planned. As the vehicle neared, Michael noticed that, instead of the accustomed pickup he expected came a brand-new crew cab diesel. Apparently life was good for the doctor. The big truck pulled to a stop next to the Explorer and Joseph stepped out. He started to speak, but Michael cut him off.
“I know, ‘What brings me to Saturday dinner?’”
“I see you’ve been speaking with Mother and Grandfather.”
“Of course. I did have to answer the required parental questions.”
“I’m sure. So what’s up?”
“Nothin’, just passin’ through. Got hungry around Flag.”
“Right. Never could turn down a free meal, could you?”
“Nope. Where are Lisa and the kids?”
“Down in Window Rock. Scott’s got a big tournament game today. I couldn’t get down there because of patients, so I . . .” the conversation continued on in general chitchat for a few minutes before they finally meandered toward the kitchen.
Over the next couple of hours a more vehicles arrived, carrying the other members of the related clans who would celebrate with them in the Spring dances and sing. As the women prepared in the kitchen, the men prepared for the dances and the sing. Michael and Joseph, at the guidance of the Fire Man elder from the Bear Clan, began building the fire ring. It would become the focus of the first portion of the evening, the sing. The other men, with Hosteen Begay, began preparing the sweat lodge to the east of the fire ring.
In about two hours the men and women were finished with their various tasks and dinner was served. As usual, it was a feast. Mutton and corn were the main courses. Hosteen Begay gave thanks to the Bear Clan families gathered who had butchered the plump sheep, with the Corn Clan’s Saturday dinner the benefactor. The aroma of fresh-baked round bread hung lightly above sage-spiced air. There was blue mush flavored with the roasted mutton, vegetables from a cousin’s garden, and fry bread. And of course there was corn. Roasted ears, corn stew and kneel down bread, all made from the staple that had supported their daily life for centuries. No Saturday dinner would be complete without that which had brought them life and allowed them to continue.
When dinner had ended and clean-up was completed, the group reassembled outside around the freshly lit fire. It was springtime, a time of rebirth, and a time to sing thanks to the Yei for bringing the People through another long winter just as Changing Woman had sung long ago. Michael took a seat on the sandy desert floor at the edge of the ring. A slow drumbeat grew around the ring as the sing began with Hosteen Begay. In the old tongue he began his first of four songs as two Bear Clan cousins danced round the circle at firelight’s edge. His song was soothing and Michael gazed through the ring watching the embers and sparks fly high up into the deep blue night to join the stars as the dancers swayed on the other side. Though Michael could not understand the words, he was sure that his song acknowledged the Yei gifts of good fortune and good friends. After he’d finished his fourth song, the drum was passed to Joseph and a second singer began. In all there would be four different singers, four different drummers and four different rounds, as tradition demanded.
After nearly an hour, the chants and dancing around the circle ended. The old shaman left the circle and neared the fire, raising his arms high into the sky and speaking slowly in the ancient tongue. In a few minutes he had finished and the Sing was over. The men in the circle slowly made their way to the sweat lodge for their meeting, while the women retired to the kitchen to attend to matters of the home and the clans. With a polite grab of Michael’s arm, Joseph led his friend toward the sweat lodge with him.
**********
Anderson was relieved when he finally received the report. Nothing unusual. He leaned back in the chair in his small office. An uneasy feeling lay heavy on his mind. In the few months since appointment to the agency, he had never seen quite this much quick action. Truth be known, his assignment had been largely mundane. Morning reports of “All is well” were collated into a nice, neat little briefing, which he submitted to the uncomfortable presence of his superior every other day. There were the occasional trips to the Caribbean to deliver or pick up diplomatic pouches from a bank. It was nice duty on the rare occasion he got to stay more than a few hours. Mostly the job was administrative. Pretty boring, compared to what he would have believed covert ops to be. He was really nothing more than a glorified courier with rank.
Yet every ounce of his Annapolis training told him something wasn’t quite right with this operation. He’d begun to sense it a couple of weeks ago. Tielson had seemed clearly on edge and was more irritating to Anderson than ever before. He’d never really cared for the hairy little man from the first moment he’d met him, but he hadn’t truly detested him until recently. Lately there’d been a rash of calls from the Old Man. Questions that no one had real answers to. Requests that he more closely monitor an operation that he really knew nothing about other than reports that “All is well.” But all wasn’t “well” and he could feel it.
Maybe again, his rational side tried to tell him, he was just overreacting. Maybe he was looking for some excitement that wasn’t really there. He closed his eyes, reassessing his months on assignment with the operation. The only things he really knew about were general. “An interagency destabilization effort” was how it had originally been outlined to him. He wasn’t really sure who or what they were destabilizing, but it was definitely interagency. He’d certainly been exposed to the different wings of the government.
In the end he could land only two concrete beliefs. First, he couldn’t trust Tielson; he’d lie to him in a second—it was the agency way. Only the top man knew for sure which of the layers of fact among deception was bullshit. Therein lay the second thing he could count on: in the agency’s eyes a junior man was sacrificial to the cause. Somewhere, the back recesses of his mind nagged at him to look into this one carefully on his own. Whatever this little man was up to might not likely be in his, or necessarily the nation’s, best interests.
**********
Michael stepped into the mudded hut, immediately noticing the contrast between the cool night’s air and the humid, stale warmth inside. Memory and sensation touched his mind. His body was seized by the intensity of the heat emanating from the small pit at the center of the round space, a small fire in a ring adjacent to it. Hosteen Begay directed him to sit on the bench opposite the fire along the eastern wall, the long-ago-directed place for a guest. The old wooden bench creaked as it accepted his weight and Michael leaned carefully against the backrest assuring himself it would accept his weight. Joseph took his place next to Michael as fire-cast shadows danced magically on the curving walls.
Hosteen Begay directed the elders to the other three rickety pews, arranged at the cardinal points and surrounding the fire and pit as they entered, before moving across the room to a small table and bench at Michael’s immediate right. The Fire Man elder from the Bear Clan knelt near the fire’s edge, a bundle of sage switches in his hand and a bucket of water to his side. Using the sage bundle, he splashed water onto the heated black lava stones that he had pulled earlier from the blazing outside fire and placed in the earthen pit. Michael watched the smoke and steam rise from the pit and felt the heat intensify.
“For you, my friend.” Michael turned to find the old shaman handing him a rolled smoke from a tray containing small cornhusks, roots and yoyviva, a mixture of wild tobacco, cedar, rain tobacco and perhaps a few other ingredients the federal government wished they wouldn’t add. Odd, he thought, that a people’s customs, passed on for millennia, were now questioned by a late-coming government that had also usurped their tribal lands. Hosteen Begay passed him a piece of root, which he took with his other hand, and then the tray was passed to his right to a Bear Clan cousin. Michael watched as he rolled a smallish cigar from the tray, using a dried cornhusk as a rolling paper. When he had finished, he took a root and passed the tray on to his right. And so it continued until finally it returned to Michael and the shaman. From the other side of the fire-ring, the Bear Clan elder rose, lifting a glowing stick from the ring and handing it to Hosteen Begay. He first lit his cigar before passing the stick to his right. In a few minutes it had made its way all around the room.
When each man had finished his cigar, Hosteen Begay placed the root in his mouth and began to slowly speak in English since one among them did not understand the ancient tongue of the People. To do otherwise, even during this sacred ceremony, might be insulting to their invited guest and not in keeping with the Navajo Way. He spoke of the thanks that should be given to the Yei fathers for the many gifts they had given them. The gifts of spring and of new life, as he tossed pine boughs on to the fire. The gifts of the friendship of the lodge and of the life bestowed upon each of them, now adding yucca leaves to the now crackling fire. Continuing with the advice that in this time it was good to re-visit their simple beginnings and be thankful for the Yei gift of the haneelneehee, the Emergence of First Man and First Woman.
They were created, the shaman began, when the Yei chiefs transformed them from two primordial ears of corn. Upon transformation, they were placed at the lowest level of four lower worlds, each one stacked directly on top of each other. In this lowest level, First Man and First Woman shared their world with Coyote and the insect people.
They attempted to live in the first world according to the rules and customs given them by the Yei, the Navajo Way. But First Man and First Woman, along with the others with them, were given to quarreling, adultery and strife. Despite repeated warnings by the Yei chiefs from the surrounding oceans that they were not living as they should, these peoples were unable to mend their ways. After repeated failings, the Yei chiefs released waters from the surrounding oceans and the first world was destroyed. Those that survived, including First Man and First Woman, were forced to flee upward to the next level.
In the next world new peoples of various identities, including birds and Pueblos, joined them. Again they settled in to this new world, again they repeated their same mistakes and again the waters were released and the second world was destroyed. The survivors fell into the same routine at the third level, where they were joined by Coyote, and were eventually chased from the Third World. Finally, First Man and First Woman, along with the diyin diné e, the survivors of the Third World, were forced to flee upwards through a reed that punctured the earth to the present-day level of earth. After traveling through the reed, they arrived on the surface at a place somewhere in the bottom of what is now the Grand Canyon. At that time though, the land we know today had not been created by the Yei and they found nothing but featureless dried mud. The Yei promised that if the People lived right in this, their final chance, that they would be rewarded with a land not only rich, but created in the People’s own eyes.
With this in mind, First Man and First Woman built the first sweat lodge in which they, and the Diné, gave thanks to the Yei for their Emergence and planned what the world should be like. This time they lived as the Yei chiefs instructed and raised the child Changing Woman. She was the daughter of Long Life Boy and Happiness Girl, and they had brought her with them from one of the lower worlds when her parents were drowned by the waters. As they continued to live by the Navajo way, the Yei gave them the powers of creation, held in First Man’s medicine bundle until the Yei instructed that it be used.
Over time, Changing Woman grew and matured. Eventually, the Yei instructed First Man to give her the medicine bundle containing the creation powers. The Yei had not allowed First Man to use these powers because they feared that he might use them unwisely. They then rewarded the Diné for living well, creating the Navajo world as it exists today and as planned by the People in their sweat lodge. The Yei then showed the created land to Changing Woman. Their homeland was to be bounded by Four Sacred Mountains, symbolizing the four worlds of the People. They were directed by the Yei, through Changing Woman, that they should never leave their homeland. She was shown that the land contained the Four Great Rivers and from their bounty, the People would be assured continued life.
But First Man and First Woman would never share the homeland given to the Diné. The Yei gods told them that they must leave the earth as they had come, through the reed, as their punishment for their repeated failings in the lower worlds. They were returned through the reed and made the chieftains of witchcraft and death.
Changing Woman was then told by the Yei to use the powers in First Man’s medicine bundle to create the Navajo people and the land they would share. She did this by using her own skin and forming four couples, the ancestors of the first four Navajo clans. From these four clans grew other clans and from these four couples grew other couples. The People lived the Navajo Way as directed by the Yei and now many inhabited the land among the Four Sacred Mountains.
And each year, as they had done since the time of Changing Woman, the People gathered in their hogans and sweat lodges in springtime to feast, dance and sing thanks to the Yei for providing for them and granting them another year in the fourth world. Each year the men gathered in the sweat lodges to remember the gifts given them, to ask the Yei for another year in their homeland, and most important, to show them the future as it may come.
Hosteen Begay paused for a few moments as the Fire Man exited the sweat lodge, returning in a few moments with nine more black lava rocks for the pit. Placing them in the pit, he paused for a moment and picked up his sage bundle and splashed water onto the rocks. The heat made Michael feel lightheaded and he closed his eyes and began chewing on the root. He listened as a drum took up a steady beat in the recesses of the lodge, a low voice began singing. With each passing moment he drifted further toward a state of total relaxation, the same state he’d experienced many years before in Hosteen Begay’s sweat lodge. His breathing and pulse slowed as his senses took on a being of their own. He could taste the different types of wood emanating from the fire outside. Pinion, juniper and the ever-present sage again hung heavily in the humid air. His skin sensed minute fluctuations in temperature as sweat seeped from his pores. He listened intently as the crackle of the fire just outside was replaced by soft singing from across the room. Into his soul flowed the music, hypnotizing his mind.
Whether from the effects of the root, heat or the entrancing drum marking time, a handful of playful images began emerging from the shadows of Michael’s subconscious thoughts. Slowly they began taking shape, strangely lit by a fire pit around which they began to gather inside his eyelids. A rainbow-colored figure, bent forward from a deformed and hunched back, pulled what originally seemed like a clarinet from behind his shoulder. His spindly hands pulled the instrument to his mouth and he began to play. Oddly, the music that emanated was flute-like and reverberated gleefully from the ground, a consequence of the soloist’s misshapen body. Michael listened, delighted, to the sweet music wafting through his ears, noticing the shape of a coyote apprehensively approaching, sniffing, slowly stalking at the outer edge of the light.
As if called by the music, a woman emerged from the shadows, her face distorted by the flickering light growing in the pit, yet her gait soothingly familiar. She paused hesitantly by the fire, eyeing Coyote as he nervously pranced back and forth at shadows’ edge. Michael watched as three more figures now emerged from the piñon-junipers to his right. A featureless figure of a man was led blindly by two others toward the opposite side of the fire from the lute player and woman. As they moved further into the light he could see the man was covered by a plain white woven blanket; the other two were dressed elaborately, their mid-sections elongated, one carrying a bow with squiggly lightning-bolt arrows extending from his quiver, the other carrying a spear in his hand. Michael’s mind immediately flashed back to the many petroglyphs he’d seen of the Yei Gods in the Mesa Verde-Escalante areas and Chaco Canyon over the years. The two Yei positioned the man near the fire before they began to dance slowly around the fire, slowly expanding their circle, keeping Coyote away in the shadows as the lute player and woman retreated north and away from the fire towards vague sand dunes in the distance.
Michael noticed that above the dance now flew Big Fly, whom he recognized immediately from the shaman’s old tales. This was the Yei’s guardian of the Diné, darting occasionally toward Coyote, who still lurked nervously. Finally tiring of Big Fly’s continued pestering, Coyote dodged his way toward the shadowy sand dunes in the northern distance now following the lutist. The mystical dance around the man continued. From the stars above shot brilliant light, encompassing the fire and the dance.
Big Fly returned, swooping down, landing lightly upon the man’s shoulder as the music softly distanced. The guardian nodded his head to the man, drawing his attention away from the dance toward a smaller figure coming forward, wearing a plain brown Hopi Ku?itu mask, shrouded from the shoulders in a reddish, woven blanket, pausing, perhaps reluctantly, at shadow’s edge. The masked figure slowly edged slightly toward the light as three others now emerged in tow from the shadows. The smaller figure was unadorned, far different from the other three and their more elaborate but dim detail. Michael’s mind drifted back to images of the old carved Hopi Kachina dolls he’d seen since he was a kid. The two Yei dancers slowed to a near stop, dancing in place, fronting the man, but also welcoming and creating an entrance for the three Kachinas and their plain masked friend to join them. One of the Kachina moved slowly forward, the others sheepishly keeping some distance, moving to shield the mysterious figure behind them just at light’s edge.
Big Fly leapt from the man’s shoulder heading straight toward the distant sand dunes, Michael’s attention following. He could faintly see the woman from before now following the lute player up over a large dune. Coyote approach cautiously before taking a seat on the dune’s shoulder, watching the pair carefully, occasionally sniffing the air, until Big Fly swooped down, chasing him to a jump, skip and a dart over the dune. The lute playing continued, growing dimmer, more distant, with each passing moment.
Near the fire now both Yei and the three Kachinas appeared immersed in serious discussion, occasionally glancing toward the featureless man, then to the dune, and finally back to the still mysterious figure at shadow’s edge. Suddenly there was a loud thump and for the first time Michael noticed one of the Kachinas had a drum, which he was now thumping on. A hard beat was followed by three softer beats, as he led the five out of conversation into an animated dance among themselves.
Michael’s mind homed in on the drummer, sensing familiarity, carefully observing his mud mask, its round snout for a mouth, big square ears with a rectangular Mohawk tuft of mud for his hair. He wore a simple brown scarf tied around his neck, a brown kilt around his waist, a red and green stripe circling around its lower third. Michael’s mind dug hard, the electricity of the search pulsing through millions of neurons, until finally recalling the figure he’d seen in the display cases of Kachinas in the Fort Lewis College library. Mudhead, a little voice sparked, a humorous sort, known to the Hopi as Koyemsi. He’d passed him hundreds of times during his studies and Mudhead seemed to be in every Hopi dance he’d seen. A clown, a jester, always interacting with the peoples and playing games. The other two were a puzzle, though; no memories came forth. The one with the drum had seemingly led the discussion between the Yei, Mudhead and the other Kachina; while the third seemed more a companion of Mudhead’s as the dancers co-mingled.
The faint sound of the lute player began to grow in his left ear, keeping time with Mudhead’s drumbeat. Big Fly now descended, taking an approving hover above the fire and ongoings. The music grew louder as the lute player emerged alone from behind the distant dune, his earlier slow song now replaced with a more upbeat jig. With this the dancers’ activity increased. The mysterious masked figure at shadows edge, invited by the others, now advanced into the dance, with a slow and apprehensive gait. The five dancers all lifted their hands and playfully grabbed at the Ku?itu mask as the figure advanced directly toward the man, growing closer, leaning in to him and reaching to touch the man’s shoulder.
The light nudge brought Michael’s eyes open slowly and begrudgingly, as the creaking of the bench and movement from Joseph getting up drew his attention. When he closed them again, the dance was over and, sadly, the dream was gone. Reality had been restored. The flutist had stopped playing and the fourth round of rocks had made their entrance into the sweat lodge. Reluctantly Michael adjusted in his seat and focused his eyes to see Joseph and the Fire Man splashing the last of the water onto the superheated rocks as Hosteen Begay slowly neared him, leaning his walking stick against the table.
“I can see from your face, my friend, that the Yei have shown you your way,” the old shaman said calmly, placing a warm hand on Michael’s shoulder and taking a seat. “I know that much troubles you, but you must follow this path the Yei have shown you. Tell me of what you have seen.”
Michael recounted in detail the dance of the Kachina and Yei; of Big Fly and Coyote; of the man, the woman and the mysterious masked figure. “What other dreams?” inquired his listener, so he reluctantly, but only generally, told him of the other, more terrifying, nightmares he’d had for the last few months. He held back his perceived sin in not being there for her. The shaman listened attentively, occasionally smiling and nodding, similarly to the priest-penitent confession moments of Michael’s Catholic upbringing. By the time he had finished, the last of the steam had dissipated and Michael was washed out, drenched in sweat, tears and his own guilt, chin cupped in his hands, his mind oscillating between confusion and despair.
The shaman told him to sit back and enjoy his sweat lodge’s warmth. That they would talk of this again later after he spoke with the other elders and perhaps…before his voice trailed off, as if thinking better of what he was about to say, noting the confused and distant look in his eyes. Michael nodded reflexively, but was too exhausted to talk further. He just leaned heavily into the backrest, now unconcerned with its steadiness. The old man again placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he rose and grabbed his walking stick, moving slowly back toward the opposite side of the lodge and the others. Michael closed his eyes, hoping, praying this would someday all go away. His mind wandered into dizziness as the old shaman spoke softly of the dreams with the others near the fire’s edge, glancing back occasionally toward Michael.
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