An Unearthly Undertaking Read online

  Again, she felt like he was reading her mind.

  “The nasty business?”

  “The white men you work for are panicked because an Indian trinket went missing. Or actually, because they’ll be out of pocket for money to pay for it.”

  “Yes. The rattle.”

  “No problem. It’s in the next room,” he said.

  That stopped her. She wasn’t sure if it surprised her more that the man had actually been the one who took it or that he admitted it so readily. “How?”

  He shrugged. “Beats me. One of the things you have to accept about my line of work is that you seldom get to know how things actually work. The most you get is a feeling or vague ideas of things the spirits think might help. There isn’t any instruction manual, and the training, such as it is, is more to develop your ability to open yourself to those suggestions than to learn skills for making things happen. You have to be able to deal with a lot of uncertainty. But you already know that.”

  Charli almost choked. “I do?”

  “Sure. It’s no different for dreamers. You don’t have to deal with the visions, but you have the dreams and I’m sure they don’t have subtitles or come with some kind of Cliff Notes that explains what it means.”

  “What makes you think...”

  “We met in your dream. You brought me into it.”

  “I did?”

  “The dreamer sets the stage. So there we were, you me, Sabrina, the rattle.” He chuckled. “I don’t normally do the smoke thing, but you dream with a sense of theater.”

  Dizzy, Charli leaned against a wall. “I did all that?”

  “Right. So naturally I knew who you were,” he said, grinning.

  “Naturally,” she said not thinking anything about this was natural.

  “A while ago I saw Coyote was edgy. He met you in the dream too. So I paid attention and sensed you were coming. It was clear as a bell.” He stood up. “So I made tea. Want some?”

  “Sure,” she said, happy for the pause to give her time to think. Her head was spinning. As he ambled into the kitchen, she changed her mind. She wanted to know everything now. “What did you sense that told you I was coming here?”

  “You got stronger in my... I call it my field of vision, but that’s a little joke of mine. Shaman... visions, get it?”

  “Right. Shaman humor.”

  “Generic Indian humor,” he said. “There's no special spirit stuff required for bad jokes.”

  “Did you sense anything else?”

  “Just the obvious.”

  “I'm not sure I know what is obvious any more.”

  He smiled. "Smart lady. I sensed that because you grew up with white people, you are a little disconnected from your abilities. I’ve seen your grandmother trying to reach out to you, but her power has weakened a lot from what it was in the old days. She used be real high octane. It didn't help that you didn’t really want to hear what she was saying.”

  “My grandmother?” A woman in her dreams had told her she was her grandmother.

  Reyes put tea bags in two mugs and picked up an electric kettle, pouring the hot water over them. “I hope Earl Gray is okay...”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. It’s traditional. Anyway, there’s a lot of info in dreams. Even if it isn’t your dream, a dream can be a powerful tool, but all by themselves they tend to lack some effectiveness for teaching unless your teacher is right there to explain things, show you how to understand them. Some folks manage to learn to ignore their dreams although it beats me how they do that. Your mother managed somehow.”

  “My mother was a dreamer?”

  “Heck no. She ran from it. She was supposed to be, but things don’t always work out the way tradition or parents intend. Normally dreaming, the ability to see and interpret is inherited. It passes down through the female line... a maternal skill.”

  “So you aren’t a dreamer?”

  “Not me. My dreams are mostly about a cute woman who teaches the third grade in the Ramah school. The elders don't want to hear about those, except maybe privately. No, I’m a Shaman.”

  “What is the difference?”

  He turned and handed her a mug of hot tea. “Okay, this is one man’s understanding, so take it with a grain of salt. In her sleep a dreamer sees things; important things usually that are about life and death, loss and triumph. If they are interpreted correctly, if the dreamer is honest, the dreams offer guidance to people who are willing to take it.” He stopped and thought. “That’s what I know about dreamers. A Shaman is someone who looks at problems and gets advice from the spirit world. We diagnose, learn to see the true malady, and then turn to the spirits for help. Sometimes my spirit animals assist me.”

  “Spirit animals?”

  He pointed to a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck. “Intermediaries. Scorpions and rattlesnakes, in my case,” he said. “They are to me what the witches called familiars. Oh, and you already met coyote. He is an erratic familiar.”

  It was all a bit overwhelming. “How did you get the rattle? The security footage shows the gallery empty when it disappeared.”

  “I hacked the security system through the wifi in the museum waiting room, then looped the video feed for the night,” he said.

  “What?”

  Iron Eyes stared for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Sorry. That was something I saw on television at Raymond’s house one night. I couldn’t resist.”

  “So how did you get it?”

  He cocked his head. “I didn’t.”

  “But you have it.”

  “Because I needed it. See, from the spirit point of view, and ours too, I suppose, that artifact is kind of on loan to the museum.”

  “On loan?”

  “Right. The white men took it during Hweedldi.”

  “What on earth is Hweedldi?”

  “That’s our name for the Long Walk. In 1864 around 9,000 Navajo men, women, and children were removed from their homes and forced to walk over 300 miles to be incarcerated in the plains of Bosque Redondo near Ft. Sumner. While they were at it, the white men took a few things including the rattle. The Shaman at the time was prepared to die to keep it, but the Twin Warriors, Thunder and Lightning, spoke to him and said he should surrender it. They promised that whenever it was truly needed a Shaman could ask Coyote to retrieve it.”

  “Coyote?” Involuntarily, Charli glanced through the window. “I thought he was your familiar and that legend says he is a trickster.”

  Iron Eyes beamed. “Excellent. He is. He is also part of our healing ceremonies... an essential part, and a central figure. It’s complicated.”

  “Okay.”

  “Man and Coyote have had a somewhat contentious relationship that isn’t helped by the fact that he doesn’t much like being understood by humans. So he thwarts us periodically.”

  “Fair enough, I guess.”

  “Right. Anyway, I needed the rattle very badly, so I asked mą'ii, that’s Coyote’s Navajo name, to get it for me.” He pointed to the coffee table. “I’m never sure if he is paying attention, but a couple of hours later, I came out and it was sitting there. I guess there is a spirit express service, because I sure can’t even get stuff from Amazon that fast.”

  “Why did you suddenly need the rattle?”

  He sighed. “For a patient.”

  Suddenly things made sense. “The woman who was shot and disappeared? She was brought to you?”

  Iron Eyes twisted his lips and Charli was sure he was trying to decide how much to tell her. Finally, he clapped his hands. “Okay, I know you don’t really believe all this Indian legend crap and even though it was all right there in your dream, I know you don’t believe or trust your own dreams. Maybe we can resolve both of those... one way or another.”

  “There are options?”

  “I’ll tell you everything I know and saw. Either you believe what I tell you, and then it will all make sense, or you shove it all away like foul-tasting food and just write me off
as a crazy old man who stole the rattle and is so out of touch with reality that he doesn’t even know it.” He smiled. “For me, either outcome works the same. But you have more at stake.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, because you need to learn about your dreaming.”

  “For what?”

  He shrugged. “I only know what I’m told or see in my visions. I don’t think I have a need to know. The spirits aren’t big on providing complete background papers on the things they reveal.”

  “Neither are you.”

  He laughed. “True. Being obscure is infectious.” Then he put his hands on his knees. “Sit back and relax and I’ll tell you a story. It’s long, somewhat complicated, and when I’m done, I’ll give you one reason to believe me. I think it’s a compelling reason, but you will need to be the judge. And that won’t be easy because it isn’t a logical reason.”

  “What is it then?”

  “An empirical reason. You have to wait for it. It's hidden in the story I have to tell.”

  Charli sat back. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  Reyes Iron Eyes leveled that steely gaze at her. This time it didn’t seem anything but intense and focused. He drew a long breath and started to talk.

  Chapter Ten

  Cops and Indians

  Elle sat next in the passenger seat of Raymond's battered pickup truck as they bounced down a washboard dirt road, throwing up a cloud of dust. She did her best to ignore the fact that the seat belt wouldn't tighten properly.

  “Can you tell me anything about the woman who was shot?” Elle asked.

  “I can tell you a whole lot about her,” he said. “She grew up right here on the reservation. She went off to college, then law school and when she came back, there was fire in her pretty eyes. She was all set to change our lot in life.”

  “Sounds like you like her.”

  He chuckled. “I do. The way things go these days, the kids that go away to school either get all self-righteous and idealistic about righting the wrongs done to the tribe, or they decide that hanging out with backward Indians is a losing cause. The tribe gave Sabrina a scholarship with the idea she’d come back and work here, at least for a time, but she was all fired up. A true believer who wanted to right the wrongs of the world.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” Elle said.

  “Not a damn thing,” Raymond said. “As long as the setbacks don’t get to you and sour that enthusiasm. It’s one thing to settle into taking a longer view of things and another to get bitter.”

  “Was she bitter?”

  “Not at all. But she is still young. She had learned some things about property and treaties and the like that she thought she could put to use in helping the tribe.”

  “How do property rights help you?”

  Raymond nodded. “Look around you. Nothing but scrub as far as you can see. What one thing do you think would make the most difference to the welfare of the tribe?”

  She looked. Along the roadside, devil winds, tiny swirls, sent up plums of dust. “Water,” she said. “Just staring out there makes me thirsty.”

  “Right the first time. And by the way, there is a bottle of water in the glove compartment if you weren’t being metaphorical.”

  “I’m seldom metaphorical,” she said, opening it and taking out a small, unopened water bottle. “But this is yours.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I grew up thirsty.” As she drank, she tried, and failed, to imagine living here. “Sabrina was on the trail of a property claim that she said was made out but never filed correctly. A couple of years ago the county seat in Gallup sent over all the papers they had that related to the tribe. They’d been stored for years and never looked at. Got to be a fire hazard, so they sent them to us. Sabrina was sure she’d find proof there that we’d been deeded land with water on it, but it never got recorded.”

  “And it’s nearby?”

  “Abuts the reservation. It’s part of some that’s under the Bureau of Land Management and they let local ranchers graze on—have for years. It got swept up as land that had never been claimed. The fact that some missionaries deeded it to us was an old story, but no one ever had the time and energy to follow it up. More to the point, back then Indians wouldn’t be allowed to look at the documents. When they were sent here, well, even if we’d thought about that old tale, no one working for us would know what they were looking for.”

  “But a lawyer who had studied that...”

  He held up a finger. “She did some paper on her theory and the evidence she’d uncovered. When she got here and found that we had all the old files you’d of thought she’d discovered Christmas was coming once a week. She dug in.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Apparently she was hot on the trail. She wanted to have a public record of her search and convinced a reporter for a paper in Gallup to write about her search. A few nights ago, she was working one of her normal long shifts, self-imposed, I should add, and she called Jerry, the reporter and told him to get his white butt out here, although she might’ve said it more nicely. He got here in time to find her bleeding to death.” He shrugged. “But if you heard the news reports, you know that already.”

  “And that the EMTs arrived to find her body missing. A person that seemed to be mortally shot just disappeared into thin air.”

  Raymond’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I have no idea how thick the air was.”

  “Don’t avoid the question.”

  “Well, that’s what I understand. I guess you can call it the spooky part of the story.”

  “You don’t seem all that spooked. Unsettled, concerned maybe.”

  “Well, in my experience things happen for a reason, investigator.”

  “Mine too, but the reason usually turns out to be because people made them happen.”

  “Yeah. But we have good people out here.”

  “Good people sometimes do bad, or just stupid things. Tell me more of the story.”

  Raymond shrugged. “The way I heard it, that night Jerry arrived to find a darkened office. A door was open, so he went in. Sabrina lay bleeding on the floor. She’d been shot—a head wound. Jerry called 911. He had to step outside to make the call as reception is spotty there and the metal roof on the building doesn't help at all. So he called it in, and then he turned back to go back inside and see if he could do anything for his friend. As he entered the building, stepped into the dark, someone clobbered him on the head. When the Tribal Police and paramedics arrived ten minutes later, Jerry was unconscious with a huge goose egg. He was lucky he didn't get a concussion; Sabrina was flat missing. Later on, tests proved that the pool of blood on the floor was hers, but there was no trace of her and no indication of how she might’ve been taken away. Jerry was certain that her injuries were massive, and the amount of blood substantiated that.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s how a curious incident made the news, a story that could only say that a truth seeker had been shot, an attempt made on her life. What happened to her and who would try to extinguish such a promising young life were instant mysteries. And that is what I know.”

  “Someone hid her for a reason.”

  “You think?” Then he laughed. “I suppose there are reasons for doing almost anything.” He paused. “Young lady, that even though the logic leading to people’s actions doesn’t always seem to hold up in the light of day, keep in mind that most folks make the best decisions they can with the information available to them at the time.” Elle sat back and considered his deliberately vague comment. He was telling her something. He slowed the car and nodded toward a cluster of concrete-block buildings. “Here are the lavish headquarters of our Tribal Police. We keep the official truth here.” He winked. “Go find it.”

  “I think you know more than you are telling me, Raymond Talks-with-Wolves.”

  “I think you might be right,” he said, surprising her. “But then, it isn’t necessarily always the best ide
a to blurt out everything at once. Sometimes a person needs to digest a little bit to prepare them for a bigger dose. Especially when it’s something they aren’t naturally inclined to believe that sort of thing.”

  “So you are telling me I’m not prepared to know what really happened?”

  “I’m saying that the police will give you everything that the officers could fit into the neat forms they copied from the US Government for stuff like this. The rest of it...” He shrugged. “Well, the rest is just spooky.”

  “Spooky? Even to you?”

  He laughed. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll stick to the paperwork. Spooky is Charli... Bonita’s turf.”

  “That’s a wise course of action. Leave spooky stuff to the Shaman and Dreamers. The rest of us just navigate what we see. You are a smart lady.”

  “Not bad for a white woman, right?”

  Raymond chuckled. “No comment.”

  The car came to a stop and she opened her door. Stepping out, she saw some men in police uniforms looking over, curious. “Let’s go in, look at paperwork, and then you can talk to the nice police people.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A Story of Land

  When Charli had sat back in her seat holding her mug of tea, Reyes Iron Eyes told this story:

  Life on the reservation requires balance... More every day. The members of the tribe do their best to bridge two rapidly diverging worlds. They need to learn and preserve the old ways, the tribal traditions and mores that define The People, but they also need to keep up with the crazed pace of the world of the white man. Progress and innovation on one hand, tradition and wisdom on the other. So, while the elders, the ceremonies, the parents teach the children our old ways, our schools give them a more appropriate education for dealing with outsiders. Sometimes the allure of technology, the luxury goods of the white world, makes it difficult for them to see the value in the old ways, so the struggle becomes increasingly difficult.

  Yet there are bright lights to make us feel the cause is not lost.

  One child from the Ramah reservation, named Sabrina Sunshine stood out even when she was young. In Navajo she is called Sháńdíín, which means sunshine. The teachers noted her progress and reported it to the elders, who ensured she was able to remain in school even when that was difficult for her parents. As it turned out, she became the first Ramah tribe member to earn a full scholarship to Cal State, Berkeley. She majored in history and graduated with honors. After that, she asked the National Congress of American Indians to send her to law school. They did.