For Years He Caught Her Tears in a Cup

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I finish telling her how the Hepa 11 filtration system gets even the smallest dirt particles out of the carpet and am on the verge of revealing to her that “Kirby is more than a vacuum, it’s an entire system of home care.” When I get to my slogan, there is no need to say more. I have sold the son of a bitch. The mere formality of signing and handing over the check is all that remains. She finally says to me: “Is that black hair of yours hard to keep clean? I mean, it is so long and so shiny, I just want to run my hands through it.” I didn’t know what to say. I sat perplexed and started to doubt she had been listening to my fine-tuned spiel at all. I tell her it is no different from her hair-just buy a Pantene Pro-V or a Garnier Fructis from any of the local supermarkets. Shampoo and condition it once a day. I admit the question rattled me, but I tell her about the LED lights and how easy it is to get under the couch or into those hard to reach corners and how visible dust and dirt appear underneath the radiant glow. I am on the verge of my joke, about to tell her she could drive a car with these lights, but I don’t try it. The joke has a 99.9 percent ratio of success. Only an overweight man in Las Cruces, New Mexico, too lazy to lift the handle on the La-Z-Boy recliner, did not laugh.

The woman cuts me off mid-sentence. She tells me how once she stopped in a small town in Utah or Arizona, outside of the Grand Canyon and bought a Navajo sarape for her son. “Made from the wool of a Churro sheep, the Indian man told me.” Then she tells me how the Indian man wore all kinds of silver with turquoise emblems inset. “One,” she says,”‘a silver bird pendant, had the turquoise in the middle. Like it was a heart or something.” I tell her that’s very interesting. “‘They sell lots of touristy stuff in those parts, ma’am.” I try to focus her on the vacuum, but she is quick to baffle me with another sentence. She asks me if I am related to the Indian who sold her the sarape, except she worded it like this: “Are you of relations to this Indian fellow?” I vice grip my lower lip between my teeth. What do people think? Do they think every Indian grew up on the same damn reservation, all laughing, drinking, and weaving rugs and blankets to sell to tourists? I tell her it was probably someone from the Sioux or Ute Nation, knowing well enough that either a Pueblo or Navajo sold her the blanket. Then I have to tell her something to feel dignified, oddly enough. I tell her I am a Navajo native, that my great grandmother, “Tilda Esther Manygoats,” an amalgamation of American, Biblical, and Navajo names, still teaches me my native tongue twice a week. I tell her I am the last son in a long line of proud Navajo, ancestors of Narbona, the martyr. I tell her if I do not learn the Navajo language, my heritage dies with me. I take it back into the earth. She twitches her left side a little bit, and, then laughs. She lights a Marlboro Menthol 100, and it nearly pokes out my eye as she swivels toward me, using her free hand to wave out the match. Between puffs, she tells me how her husband calls them Nava “joe,” like in “Joe Blow.” I smile and tell her “very clever.” She continues staring at me, as if I were a movie star, or a character from a book she had read as a child.

Realizing the sale is off, I hasten to leave. I am the top salesman in the state, and wasted time is wasted money. I get to my feet, gather my supplies and head to the door, politely thanking the woman for her time. She follows me to the door and as I am leaving says, “I am sorry I couldn’t buy your vacuum. Do you have some turquoise in your trunk or maybe one of those nice blankets woven in red I could buy? I would love to buy something from you.” And this is where I experience the raw anger I have been experiencing lately, Doc. I face her and I think she can sense some of the Athapaskan-warrior blood coursing through my veins. She retreats a step, almost as if she knew her remark was offensive. I step forward and in the most absurd and mocking Indian dialect I say, “Me, Pinion Pitch. You, White-faced-smoker-woman. How! I sell moccasins and Chinle rugs in trunk. You pay with alcohol.” She just stares flabbergasted and says: “I would have to make a run to the liquor store. My husband doesn’t keep liquor on hand.” I can no longer refrain from smiling. I tell the woman I am only kidding and for her to have a good day. She pulls her robe snug, smiling suspiciously and locking the door. This type of altercation has happened frequently of late. “My sales have dropped drastically over the past few months, Doc.”

“Does it bother you that your sales have dropped or more so that people want to talk about your Native American heritage, Pinion Pitch?”

“Funny, Doc. Only my great grandmother calls me Pinion Pitch. I go by the American name on my birth certificate: Joshua Smith. And yes, both situations bother me immensely. But it drives me insane to think society wishes I would embrace my native roots. It’s like they want me to don my war paint, strap on leather leggings, slip into moccasins, saddle the horse and ride into town shouting ‘woo, woo, woo.’  Then, once I arrive in town, they want me to park the horse, pay the meter, sit down at my desk bare-chested, and start making phone calls like nothing is amiss. It doesn’t work that way. You can’t go to a damn pow-wow one night and a Nine Inch Nails concert the next.”

“Okay. Okay. Let me ask you one more question and then we’ll move on. Give me your own diagnosis on this one. Is modern society stifling you, making it hard for you to experience what was experienced by your ancestors, or is the antithesis getting you down: the inability to eradicate your primogenitors and the nomenclatures established among your people? After all, you do seem to love your suit and tie.”

“Dine’. You mean established among the Dine’, the people.  And, yes, I do love this suit. I love everything I have worked hard to earn. It is my increase, and increase is part of the Blessingway we Navajo follow and believe. To answer your question, however, I do not think it as simple as pairs of opposites, and I believe any thoughtful person would feel out of his or her place in the world, no matter what time period they lived in. I cannot give you an honest answer at this time.”

“Let’s go back to what we were talking about last week. Tell me about your great grandmother again. Last session, you were telling me how she is forcing you to learn your history, the sacred myths. She is making you memorize them in Navajo. How is that going?”

“I was telling you about my semi-delusional great grandmother. She will be one hundred and five this August. She has lived through wars, relocations, disputes, death, famine, birth, and she still smiles each time she sees the sun set. She is a beautiful woman, only…”

“Only what?”

“She makes me go by the name Pinion Pitch, which I detest. She is ashamed of me moving to the city, and she rails on me for wearing a suit and tie. Everyone out there mocks me for being who I am. So it’s a drag to visit her. But she possesses the rights to my inheritance since my mom and dad died. If I don’t go, I don’t receive the monthly five hundred dollars that is rightfully mine.”

“Oh. I see. So you go for the monetary gain?”

“No. Not at all. You make me sound so selfish. It isn’t like that. It’s just… it’s a long drive and I worked awfully hard to be where I’m at, and when I go out there I feel so small; small enough to get carried away by a gust of wind. So small, even the beetles would pass me by unnoticed.”

“Well what about the story? The story your grandmother tells you seems to make you important. I mean, it is your heritage, and you will be the last Navajo to learn it in your native tongue.”

“It is important, I guess. She doesn’t call it a story. She calls it a truth. And she will emphatically shake anyone who says otherwise.”

“Well then, tell me the truth.”

“I was telling you the so called truth of the ‘Weeping Rock.’ Great Grandmother was explaining how it came to be named.”

II

Skin mottled, he is known as Painted Horse, and the medicine men view his condition as hallowed-for he is a changing one. He is said to be the bastard son of Narbona, the Navajo legend who returned to the dirt from a gunshot wound suffered at a peace conference with American soldiers.

Little is known of his youth. It can be inferred that the child waxed strong and grew in wisdom and spirit, and he increased in stature and favor with Diyinii. He loved to ride, spending hours on his steed, a Palomino won at the age of sixteen for his feats of bravery during a night raid on the high mountain Ute. It is said Painted Horse single-handedly held off the pursuing Ute warriors for five minutes in the narrow pass of Devil’s Elbow, allowing the band of Navajo to safely make it back into their own territory, protected by their sacred mountain. Not only did Painted Horse win the Palomino, he also received an arrow through the bicep, bringing the adulation of his peers and clan.

His allegiance to his Palomino could only be matched by his loyalty the dark haired one, the quiet one with eyes like diamonds. Ghost Flower. She was aptly named, for her light was the beginning and the end.

Their love was no passive thing. It blossomed like the desert rose, secretively budding, hidden from the outside world, but like so much taboo, the aura of forbiddance lent it mystique and magic. Ghost Flower was the youngest daughter of Black Lava, the tribal leader and first to settle in Kayenta. Painted Horse was the bastard child of Rabbit Brush, an interloper and subordinate to Black Lava’s rule. Painted Horse and Ghost Flower found themselves intricately placed within the non-verbal feud, the two often being the source of the other family’s mistrust or angst. Nothing needed be said to the children. They discerned such tension and acted accordingly.

They would have continued to act accordingly had Left-Handed Man, a member of the neighboring Red Water clan and ten years Ghost Flower’s senior, not displayed his intention of his union to her on her fifteenth birthday. Black Lava and her spouse, Greybeard, accepted the offer upon stipulations of a boon. The ceremony would be conducted, consummated only after Left-Handed Man proved his worth and honor to the family.

Ghost Flower and Painted Horse did not know what to do. To be seen together now would bring shame to the entire Black Lava clan. They decided to meet secretively in a wide canyon carved out from millennia of erosion, once or twice a month at most. A lone rock stood, perched upon a parapet of eroded sandstone and buried in the sand. The two were secluded here, covered by shade, and hidden by rock. The buried their feet in the cool sand and would talk the way lovers speak. They spoke of future events. They spoke of what must be done.

After three months, Ute Indians raided the brother of Greybeard’s  clan, and this gave them hope. The Ute had taken horses, scattered sheep, set fire to the hogans, and ravaged the young girls, kidnapping any who would be of value to the Spanish traders. The Navajo planned a retaliation raid. The entire plan rested on one possibility: Painted Horse would flank Greybeard’s right side, and defend any attempts at his life. Everything depended upon Painted Horse’s valor, for if Left-Handed Man died on the battlefield, a time of mourning would be necessary but then his brother, Paulito Coyote, would take up the vow his dead brother and take Ghost Flower as his wife. Painted Horse had but one course of action: slaughter the Ute before they could slaughter Greybeard and hope he outshined Left-Handed Man.

Before dawn, the Navajo arose to seek retaliation. Five clans thronged together in order to be a formidable foe for the marauding Utes. Painted Horse rode his Palomino at the right side of Greybeard. Left-Handed Man and his brother, veterans of battle, led the band. A cloud of dust kicked up by the band marred the blue sky behind them. Those in the back spread out to the flanks and now an immense bulwark of horse and rider now formed one onrushing mass of incarnadine warrior.

The Navajo warriors intended to attack the Ute before they made it off the high plain and into the mountains. Knowing the preceding days of pillaging and razing smaller Navajo clans would have wearied the Utes, the Navajo, fresh and kindled with anger, would overtake and administer a quick death. But such intentions were foiled. The Ute had seen the cloud of dust in the distance, and had over one hour to find a suitable place to prepare for battle. They did this by killing the stolen Navajo horses and stacking them along the edge of a two-foot erosion gap. Surrounded by other larger gaps, the Indians marooned themselves on a small island of land among land. The women and children captives were hidden in a small ravine fissured out by years of spring runoff and guarded by the most wearied riders. The Navajo would have no choice but to leap across the gap at full speed and risk being met with arrows, lances, or tomahawks.

But to die is to do no more than return to the primal stillness one came out of, to turn the ripple back in on itself. To die is to rejoin Mother Earth, return to Diyinii with eternal increase. To shrink at such moments is the fear. The fear is not death. The fear is to be found unworthy of death through cowardice.

The Navajo saw the Ute clan, and the barricade of dead horses, but they charged on undaunted. The clash of weapon on weapon and the thud of weapon on bone could hardly be heard over the yelps of excitement and the drumming hooves. Painted Horse shielded Greybeard’s side as the two made it over the two-foot gap and over the dead horses. Painted Horse’s stallion took a lance to its underbelly and blood gushed out as it crashed down and fell on its side kicking wildly. Painted horse jumped off the horse and before he could gain his bearings, a strong Ute rushed him, tomahawk slashing down. Painted horse grabbed the Ute’s wrist, and dodged the tomahawk’s blow. Before the Ute could react, Painted Horse slit the Ute’s belly.

The battle raged on. Painted Horse killed many. The battle broke up into smaller side battles now. Some scattered warriors ran for safety, but the desert provided no shelter. Some warriors stayed on the small island of land and prepared for death. Amid the melee, a group of Ute had mounted their horses and retreated. Painted horse, Greybeard and others pursued. The head of the Ute clan, a savvy, battle-scarred warrior, led the retreat. This was no coward, and the Navajo should have known he fled merely to thin out the opposition, putting the odds in his favor, or perhaps, his concern was for his sons who were much too young to die, a weakness he never would admit to.

A short distance away, the Ute positioned their horses for a charge. The Navajo quickened their pace. The Ute dug their heels into the belly of their horses and gathered speed. Horse collided with horse. Lances plunged through bodies. Heads flew through the air until they landed in the clamor of red blood and dust rising up from the earth. Arrows sped and tomahawks hurled through the air.

After two minutes of fighting, only three Navajo still clung to life. Four Ute remained. The warriors’ mode had shifted. The Ute dismounted their horses and stood ready to fight the remaining Navajo-Greybeard, Painted Horse and Manuel Manysheep-one at a time, in the ancient warrior’s tradition. The youngest of the warriors charged Manuel while the onlookers remained silent. Manuel took his knife in hand and charged. The Ute was quicker. The knife entered above the collarbone and with a downward stroke punctured the lung and an artery of the heart. Blood spurted in gouts as Manuel fell to his knees, collapsing.

The leader of the clan motioned to Greybeard to step forward. Greybeard would take on the young lad next. Painted Horse motioned Greybeard back and stepped forward in his place and in the order of tradition. The leader of the Ute clan laughed, knowing Painted Horse assured himself certain death. But this never happened. The young Ute charged screaming. Painted Horse held his ground and when the Ute thrashed at him with his knife, Painted Horse calmly stepped to the side and gouged his kidney as he flew by him. Blackish-red blood gurgled from the wound. The young warrior crumpled over, face in the dirt and jerked until dead.

The next warrior stepped forward, a swarthy Ute with enormous thighs and a pockmarked face. He charged and stopped short of Painted Horse lunging towards Painted Horse’s weight-bearing leg. The knife swiped the shin then cut across the calf before coming out half covered in blood. Painted Horse did not let the pain distract, and before the Ute could retreat, sunk his blade into the warrior’s lung. The blade point exited the pectoral, streaming with ruptured heart blood. The Ute tumbled to the ground and died without so much as a twitch.

Two warriors remained from each side. Pain and anger marbled the old Ute’s face. Painted Horse knew he had killed one of his sons. The next warrior stepped forward. For all his expertise with the tomahawk, he appeared inexperienced with the knife. He charged forward awkwardly, hoping his enthusiasm and quickness would help him annihilate his enemy. But Diyinii was not on the young warrior’s side this day. With one arm, Painted Horse grabbed the outstretched arm of the boy and almost with reluctance stabbed upwardly into the boy’s stomach. The boy hunched over and drew close to painted Horse. The knife fell from his hand and his stomach bled onto Painted Horse. Painted Horse looked into the boy’s inquisitive eyes as he gasped for air. He was dying slowly. Painted Horse watched as fear seized the boy’s face. He took his knife, still buried in the belly, the warm blood running over his hand, and he pushed it further into the boy and lifted it up and through the vitals. Painted Horse felt the entire dead weight of the boy now press against him. He stepped out from under him and the boy fell.

The old leader watched his two sons go the way of all the earth, and now he would either join them or he would end Painted Horse’s life. But this never happened. The moment the leader drew his blade, Greybeard stepped forward and motioned for the leader to go. “Too much death has occurred this day,” Greybeard said in broken Ute. “Go, and tomorrow gather the dead.” Perhaps it was the directness of Greybeard’s statement, or the old man had seen the mask of death placed upon his own face and did not want to forfeit his life inchoately, but wearied from battle, the clan leader thanked Greybeard through silence, mounted his horse and rode toward the violent red horizon ashamed of his cowardice but proud he could still feel his heart beating.

Painted Horse took his blade and scalped the three dead. The two weary warriors mounted their horses, dragged their dead and placed them atop the rider-less horses and returned to help the others.

Returning to the main battlefield, they first saw Left-Handed Man had been wounded in the leg, and writhed among the carnage of dead bodies. Flaps of tissue were exposed where the lance had been pulled out in haste. Painted Horse helped remove him from the gathered dead, turned him over to the women and children who had been hidden in the fissure and now were set free, then returned with three others to carry out the burial rites.

The four chosen for the burial rites, all men due to the weariness of the women, removed their clothing, all but the moccasins. They rubbed sagebrush ash over their faces. Two took tomahawks and began the onerous task of chipping away at the earth. Painted Horse and another removed the dead warrior’s clothing, preparing the bodies for burial. Once the graves were dug and the bodies buried, the four men brushed away all evidence of footprints and human desecration, assuring the dead a safe journey back to the underworld. The four warriors returned to the waiting party and all left the battlefield wearied and hungry.

After the five clans had disassembled, Greybeard stopped Painted Horse before they re-entered the village. The two sat in silence for a moment. Greybeard took deep breaths of contemplation, waiting for the few straggling warriors to pass them by. Finally he spoke. “It was not an easy thing you did for me today. Sometimes the Blessingway touches a person and their concern is for another, as if the other’s life were more precious than their own. I thank you for what you did, and I make a vow with you this moment, on my word, stronger than blood: Whatever you wish of me, that I will do, that I will grant you.” The moment Painted Horse and Ghost Flower hoped would come, had arrived. In a whisper, too excited to speak, Painted Horse began: “You say you will give me anything I want, Greybeard, but I only performed my duty today. If duty warrants such a reward I will not argue. There is but one thing I have ever wanted in this life. I wish for the hand of your daughter, Ghost Flower. Nothing more.” Greybeard’s brow furrowed; weariness beyond battle set into his face. “It is a hard thing you ask of me, Painted Horse. You know there is another seeking the same blessing. But what I have sworn I have sworn. It shall be done.” The two bone-tired warriors entered the camp and parted ways.

III

Black Lava did not agree. “A vow! A vow! And what of Left-Handed Man’s intentions? Do we discard his intentions because of valor?”

“What I have vowed, I have vowed. He saved my life. I will not take back my word of honor.”

“You won’t, but I will. What of my honor? Did you think of my honor or Ghost Flower’s? The two are of the same clan, and walk together as brother and sister. What you have promised is incestuous and I will not permit it.” But she did permit it, only she ostracized her daughter and would not allow anyone who had traveled north with Rabbit Brush those many years ago to remain among the clan. The Rabbit Brush clan left within a week, Ghost Flower among them, and settled five miles south, two miles past the canyon containing the rock where Painted Horse and Ghost Flower had attempted to plot their future.

Black Lava’s fury was mild in comparison to that of Left-Handed Man’s. He came to deliver his boon to the neighboring clan a few days after the battle, still caked in blood where the wound had bled through his new legging. The news caused Left-Handed Man to stumble as if drunk. Gall choked his windpipe, turning his face red. He turned, remounted, and left Black Lava’s clan but not before spitting these words at Greybeard: “I will lick the blood of Painted Horse’s heart off the end of my blade. Before I die, my blade will twist the breath out of Painted Horse’s lungs.” But this never happened.

The Rabbit Brush clan quickly managed to build new hogans, find a source of water, and live as if they had sprouted out of the earth upon that very spot. The name “Navajo,” meaning “planted fields” indicates the miraculous way in which the clan could cultivate life in such a moistureless and barren land. The move allowed Painted Horse and Ghost Flower to display their affection publicly, and although they would never flaunt such a thing or disregard the clan’s unspoken policies, it felt nice to know they did not have to be ashamed. The two were also aware of Left-Handed Man’s vituperative oath, but carried on nonetheless. If it came to combat, even as great a warrior as Left-handed Man was, Painted Horse felt sure he could quickly snuff out his life.

Over time, gravid with a second child, Ghost Flower was welcomed back into her original clan. The homecoming occurred when Black Lava realized she had been stubborn, or more likely, when she wished to be a presence in her granddaughter’s life, Prickly Pear, named for her pinch. She also wanted to be present at the birth of the new child. Hoping to amend her harsh behavior, she now smothered Painted Horse with affection and acquiescence. She even tried to entice Rabbit Brush to return, by telling her a blatant lie: ‘The land is more fertile, and the sheep have plenty of feed.” Rabbit Brush and her clan remained distant, however.

The move seemed fine, except Painted Horse had nowhere to graze the sheep he’d amassed. Not wanting to draw the ire of the elder clan members who had already overgrazed a two mile circumference around the village, he kept his livestock with the Rabbit Brush clan, and traveled the five miles daily.

The journey taxed his body and often, Ghost Flower would meet Painted Horse upon his return at the rock in the shaded canyon. Dismounting his horse and burying his tired feet in the sand, they would embrace in the rock’s shadow. Life for Painted Horse and Ghost Flower could not have been better.

Left-Handed Man turned savage after being slighted. His reputation solidified into legend. He would ravage, pillage, steal, sodomize, and slave trade anyone. Even the American soldier came to fear him and only reluctantly did business with him. Captain Clegg would say to his men: “If you value your life, best not to even deal with that wild Injun. When he isn’t drunk he’s off his rocker on that Injun drug. No telling what he might do.” It was told that Left-Handed Man took the shape of a wolf, became a skinwalker and could appear out of nowhere. “Watch where you sleep at night,” the old timers would say to the recruits, “Who knows when he will appear.” Left-Handed Man feared nothing. The night was his time now, the lone peak his howling place.

Despite this destruction, Left-Handed Man didn’t return to fulfill his murderous vow. Instead, he plotted with the Ute mountain clan leader who had watched Painted Horse snuff out the life of his two sons, ways in which their revenge might be realized. The old leader was not surprised when Left-Handed Man strode into the Ute camp unaided and alone. It was as if the old leader, reluctant but nonetheless prepared, had known all along certain actions need be carried out, unfortunate as it was to plot with such a difficult Navajo. Left-Handed Man fearlessly dismounted. He walked up to the leader, and with the fire-light reflecting upon his bare upper body, he began without introduction: “Each twilight, before returning to the village, Painted Horse meets with Ghost Flower in Crooked Rock Canyon. It is here you will find him. It is here I want you to lie in wait and then kill him while Ghost Flower looks on helplessly.” The clan leader peered at Left-Handed Man askance, his face troubled. He spoke soft and sonorous. “Why us? Why don’t you kill him yourself? The Ute has heard of your bravery. We know you are capable of killing him by yourself. Why bring trouble upon the Ute?” Left-Handed Man kicked the dirt. “Did he not kill your two sons? Did you not stand by and watch him snatch the life from their breasts?” Left-Handed Man paced in front of the fire. The old Ute leader remained silent. The warriors surrounding Left-Handed Man gripped their weapons. With a wave of his hand the old leader put the warriors at ease. He knew Left-Handed Man’s intentions. “Is there not another reason you seek our help? I sense something more,” he said. Left-Handed Man became agitated. He could not keep himself still or his emotions in check. “Yes there is more. You know there is more. Of course, I would kill him if I could, but I can’t.” Left-Handed Man’s face flashed red.. Gritting his teeth, he continued: “All I need to know from you old man, is whether or not you want to avenge your loss. I have delivered Painted Horse into your hands. Will you kill him or do I need to seek one braver than you?” The old man sat silent, contemplative. He seemed disrupted, uneasy to accept the offer of the warrior and uneasy to renege on the unspoken vow he made with Greybeard, but still aching from his cowardice. Finally he spoke. “If we do this, we do not want you on our land. We do not want you interfering with our people. Painted Horse’s death is payment enough.” Left-Handed Man agreed then mounted his horse and left. It was settled. Painted Horse would die tomorrow. But this never happened.

Painted Horse had already risen and neared his destination. The sheep were being relocated near a spring two miles east of the Rabbit Brush clan.  The monolithic stones near the canyon entrance stood like sentinels robed in red. The sheep ignored anything besides the succulent Yellow Beeplant flower, usually used to dye pottery or treat ant bites, and the desert Globemallow. Painted Horse had little to do besides guard the canyon from stray or escaping sheep. He laid down in the shade and dozed off.

Ghost Flower decided to take the three mile journey early. It was a reprieve from Prickly Pear’s constant bickering to leave her with Grandmother. She had water with her, and if it were required of her to sit in the shade longer than normal, she had brought a blanket. She made it to the rock, tied her horse off, and sat down to relax. In the distance the clip-clop of another horse could be heard approaching. Ghost Flower lost the sound as the rider made it over the rocks and into the sandy wash. Painted Horse, she figured, had the same idea as her. The rider came into view. She squinted her eyes, but could only see the outline of a male rider. His pace quickened to a trot when he saw the tied off horse. Coming into clear view now, Ghost Flower saw the bare chest, the dark horse and the painted face.  She knew it was not Painted Horse. She knew the rider had spotted her.

The blood in Ghost Flower’s stomach turned cold and curdled as it ran through her entire body. Her senses petrified as the blood wormed its way to her face and the frozen words, “Have Mercy” tried to exit her mouth. But this never happened. She couldn’t speak. She knew it would be better, and her only possibility, to stay where she stood and hope for some sort of miracle from Diyinii. Four Ute had hidden in the canyon, and now as the rider approached, left their hiding places and grabbed Ghost Flower’s arms and legs. She tried to plead, but her mouth remained frozen. She tried pleading for another, for the unborn inside her belly. The rider dismounted, and with knife drawn, shuffled closer, mocking Ghost Flower’s fear by slowly twisting the blade, letting the sun reflect in her face. Ghost Flower frantically scanned the canyon. The tall rock walls blocked her view. She could see nothing but her stone face reflected as the knife inched closer.

Painted Horse slept until his relief, a heavy set old man with scars all over his arms, woke him up. “Not much to do when the sheep have new lands to graze? They won’t make it to the grasses for another day or two?” Painted Horse stared at the old man without acknowledging him. “Well, I suppose I best take the same position,” said the old man as he crashed down on the ground. Remembering Ghost Flower, Painted Horse rose quickly, wished the man a goodnight, warned him of the coyotes making their way down, and left in a hurry.

Painted Horse quickly rode the two miles to Crooked Rock Canyon as dawn blanketed the earth. He rushed his horse to the narrow trail leading into the mouth of the canyon and towards the rock.

As he approached the rock, all he could see was Ghost Flower’s horse, still tied and whinnying patiently under a rotted tree. She must be hiding, Painted Horse thought, smiling. His smile faded. Ghost Flower was lying on the ground. Painted Horse bolted off his steed and ran to the rock. No rational thought entered his mind. Each breath of life stung with a tinge of a panic. Was he really seeing this?

Painted Horse studied the land around him. He knew what happened. A vision of what had happened came to him. A rider approached and four came out of hiding. He saw knife wielded and taunting, saw the hope in Ghost Flower’s expression vanish. The knife entered her flesh. The life transcended the body and disappeared into the dirt. What eternal agony. Painted Horse saw even beyond this, saw the culprit make his pact with the Ute. Painted Horse saw all this and stood outside the realm of action, as a helpless witness only.

Painted Horse bent forward and kissed his Ghost Flower. He pulled what was left of her sticky hair back from her mutilated face, then he wailed, roared and howled,  like a caveman, like the wolf. Primal emotion overcame him. He picked up the corpse, held her limp torso in his arms, and in a daze, carried her back to the Black Lava clan.

Hours later, he stumbled into the dark village with his moan as the forerunning sign a tragedy had struck. Clan members rushed to his aid and saw the lifeless Ghost Flower. Black Lava ran towards the noise. “No. No No,” she screamed. When she neared her daughter, she collapsed and had to be carried to her hogan. Painted Horse entered his hogan and placed the body on a blanket, lit the poles on fire, and then exited. The regular Navajo death rites were performed; sending Ghost Flower back to Mother Earth as a tattered part of the whole.

Painted Horse disappeared long before the rites ended. Accounts vary as to what occurred next. Some say he went and talked to the medicine men; some say he fled camp; others say his bitter agony transformed him there and then, and he joined Diyin, became a supernatural force, became the wind.

It is thought and said among some that Painted Horse went back to the blood-splattered rock, set Ghost Flower’s horse free to roam with the other wild horses in the area, recovered his own horse, rode into the mountains, entered the Ute camp more silent and stealthy than a snake approaches its unsuspecting prey. He entered the old clan leader’s wickiup and slit his and his family’s throat without so much as a sound escaping the sleeping victims. Children, shaman, women-all slipped into eternal silence under the slice of Painted Horse’s saber blade. Not even the bear, the revered animal among the Ute, could save a single clan member. Painted Horse killed them all and rode back to the rock where Ghost Flower died.

In the morning, the Red Water clan heard a strange sound in the wind. “This is a bad omen,” Paulito Coyote said to Left-Handed Man. “The wind carries the cry of an offended deity. What have you done, brother?” Left-Handed Man, who had awoken with surety and expectancy, lost his swagger, and suddenly stopped walking altogether. He wondered if the Ute had duped him into believing they only cared to kill Painted Horse. In a panic, he began to think his deed may have sent Ghost Flower to her death. Placing his right hand upon Paulito’s shoulder to buoy him up, Left-Handed Man spoke: “I feel the awful weight of death, Paulito. Vengeance comes for me.” Paulito Coyote had never seen such fear exhibited by Left-Handed Man. “Tell me you are joking, brother. You have conquered villages at a time. You strike fear in the breast of any who come near you. What could one as brave as you possibly fear?”

“My hands are trembling, brother. I don’t know what I fear, I only know it rides the wind.” As Left-Handed Man spoke these last words, a form took shape in the wind and struck Left-Handed Man, ripping through his stomach, eviscerating his bowels. Left-Handed Man hunched over in excruciating pain, trying to hold in his guts. The form stood still and took its final shape. It was Painted Horse, only it wasn’t Painted Horse. He stood god-like, transformed. His entire visage shifted from snake, to wolf, to spider, to First Man, to First Woman, to the underworld, to death. A new kind of fear gripped the brothers. Painted Horse stormed past Paulito Coyote four times, each time slicing his guts open, eviscerating him in sections. Left-Handed Man watched as his brother fell to the ground, convulsed, and then died.

Painted Horse stood over the dead body, bending over to take the scalp. By now, Left-Handed Man had fallen to the ground, helpless, clawing his fingers into the dirt, trying to escape. Painted Horse slowly walked over to him and then crouched near his face. Desperate, Left-Handed Man whispered his enfeebled plea: “Spare my life. Spare my life.”

Painted Horse’s blade entered the thigh and chattered as it hit bone and ripped down through flesh toward the knee. He pulled out the knife, dripping blood. The other thigh was then penetrated and ripped open. The knife then entered the belly of Left-Handed Man. A strange noise gurgled through the throat of the dying man as the knife twisted and turned in his bowels. Left-Handed Man knew was dying, but if death came by the hands of a monster so frightening to look at, what type of horror would await him in the underworld? The blade entered his heart and corkscrewed his life out of his body, sending him into the underworld. Without a word, Painted Horse scalped the man responsible for Ghost Flower’s death. He stood over the body and spit upon the decrepit face as the Red Water clan looked on, then disappeared quickly as he came.

“I am going to have to stop you there, Joshua. Unfortunately, we are out of time.”

“I would love to talk longer, but sadly my government stipend will not cover it, and my Medicaid patients should be arriving any moment.”

“Just like that? You want me to stop at the climax of my history?”

“Look, Joshua, it’s not a personal issue, I would love nothing more than to continue our conversation. I was thoroughly enjoying your story, but duty calls me as well. I mean, you should see my next patient, even though I shouldn’t be telling you this, but for my wages, I don’t give a rat’s ass about doctor to patient disclosure. The guy is a walloping mammal. He must receive food intravenously because there is no way he leaves the couch. He hasn’t had a job in five years, and he lives off of…”

“Stop!”

“What?”

“Just stop telling me about your next patient. I don’t want to hear it. So, we are done until my next visit?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We will discuss this another time. It can wait. Let it settle into your bones a bit. Just stop and talk to my secretary on the way out. She should be able to book you in about one month then we will finish your story. What I want you to do in the meantime is to think about what really causes your anger. I don’t want some surface examination. I don’t want you coming back and saying you were offended. Tell me why you were offended. Tell me why it bothers you to be a Native American. Tell me why you don’t like learning the language. Tell me why you are so depressed.”

“If I knew the answer to that, Doc, I wouldn’t have to come and see you.”

“Well, just think about. I’m not asking you to have an exact answer, but we need to narrow some issues down. Can you do that for me, Joshua? Can you at least try and pinpoint your anger. It seems like racial misconceptions are only a factor in all of this.”

“Alright! I can do that.”

“That’s a breakthrough, Joshua. Good for you. Now get out of my office you vacuum-selling maniac. Tell your grandmother hello for me. Oh, and Joshua, this is a great story you are telling me. See you in about a month.”

“Goodbye, Doc.”

IV

“I’m terribly sorry about your loss. She lived a long and full life. Sorry I couldn’t make it to youre Great Grandmother’s funeral.”

“It’s no bother. My grandmother said to tell you thanks for the flowers.”

“How are you handling all this? My friend mentioned that you only took one day off work, and then you were back at it. Are you trying to avoid thinking about your loss by staying busy?”

“No. It’s not that at all. I just wanted to stay top salesman in my district. The world doesn’t wait for a great grandmother to be put into the earth. They need their vacuums, and they need them now.”

“Doesn’t that seem irrational to you, Joshua? Can you hear what you’re saying to me? You couldn’t take a few days off to be with the family because vacuums need to be sold?”

“Maybe a little irrational, I suppose. But, you don’t understand. It’s not like the ordeal is over. I still have to fulfill my great grandmother’s deathbed wish. And I wasn’t even there to hear it. So, if you ask me, the whole thing is hogwash.”

“Well, what’s her wish? Is it going to be difficult to carry out?”

“Difficult? No. Time consuming? Yes. Apparently, she wants me to go back to the rock where Ghost Flower died and spend the night there alone.”

“That’s not bad at all. Do it on a weekend. It might be kind of fun to get away from the hurly-burly and relax for a night.”

“Easy for you to say. You aren’t the one who has to do it.”

“Come now, Joshua, it’s one day. Just fulfill her dying wish. We have a lot of ground to cover today. Besides the death, how has your month been?”

“Listen, Doc, this is what I came to talk to you about. I am not going to tell you anymore about my life. I am done with these visits. I just want to finish my story, and then I am walking out and never coming back.”

“I can’t say I agree. You might just be running a fever. Give it time, Joshua, then decide.”

“No. No more giving things time. I am going to finish my story and then I am gone. Capeesh?”

“Italian? From you?  Fine, Joshua. I can’t force you to do anything against your will, but I will tell you what I think. I think you have found the source of your anger. I think you are unwilling to face something. It’s not uncommon to be afraid to face your past. I have numerous patients who refuse to recall anything that rattles their present situation. I don’t think it could harm you to continue your story, however. Perhaps in the retelling you might bring up some issues we can discuss. Well, what are you waiting for?”

V

Painted Horse returned to the rock where Ghost Flower died. The clan members came to get him after the third day, for fear he would die of dehydration. They found the landscape changed. The rock had cracked down the middle and springing up a guzzler poured forth pristine water. The water created a channel and swerved into two runnels around Painted Horse then reconnected ten feet further down, till finally it seeped into the sandy wash behind him. The clan members stood in awe. Finally an elder spoke. “Diyinii has caused a great change. Mother Earth mourns. The rock weeps.” Painted Horse looked up at the group, unaware until the elder spoke that they were there. His face appeared vacant. He spoke a single sentence to the clan members: “Bring my daughter to me and then go.” The younger clansmen were about to implore Painted Horse to return with them when the elders kept them in check. Walking away, one of the elders explained: “It is the will of Diyinii. The absence of Ghost Flower is too much for him to bear. It will not be long before he returns to her.”

Word spread of the weeping rock. The Navajo reported the miracle as an outward manifestation of grief. “It is the representation of the heart,” they were known to say. The white missionaries claimed God Himself had heard Painted Horse’s prayers and was responding. Non-believers purported the miracle as one of grief, aligning themselves with the Navajo by saying, “Moses relied on God for his power when he smote the rock at Horeb, but Painted Horse’s grief is both deeper and mightier than Moses’ rod and staff.” Whatever the belief, the rock became a place of folklore for the locals.

Black Lava reluctantly heeded Painted Horse’s wish and delivered Prickly Pear after the clan had walked away from the rock. Painted Horse flinched as Black Lava’s consoling hand touching his shoulder, but he did not speak. She left the canyon bereft of her only remaining source of light in this life. The clan, however, did not turn its back on Painted Horse nor Prickly Pear. Occasionally, they would check in on them, but after Ghost Flower’s death, Painted Horse became mute, making it hard for anyone to communicate with him.

Over the next few weeks, Painted Horse constructed a hogan by felling cottonwoods and placing them in the traditional fork-stick style, joining the straight male log between the forks of the female log, facing the entrance east. Painted Horse allowed no one but his daughter to enter. And legend has it that he only entered at night, spending his days on the island surrounded by the pristine waters spilling forth from the rock. What he thought about, no one rightly knows.

The elders consoled Black Lava by saying Painted Horse would come around, would snap out of it or die soon. But this never happened. It was the clan that underwent change long before Painted Horse would. Days turned into weeks, and weeks to years, and Painted Horse remained the same.

On a blanched winter morning, years after Ghost Flower’s death, Rabbit Brush and Black Lava approached Painted Horse. The two stood off to the right of the rill of water, calling to Painted Horse on his island. “We are leaving the area, and wish for you to come with us,” said Rabbit Brush. Painted Horse stared at the rock. “We have made up our differences and joined clans again,” said Black Lava, hoping to inspire Painted Horse to action. Painted Horse stared at the rock. The two did not know what to do or say. Finally, his mother began: “Times are hard for our kind. Greybeard died in a mine last winter. The settlers continue to encroach upon our sacred lands, Painted Horse. We are moving into the mountains and wanted…” Painted Horse stared at the rock.

The two left without further words. Prickly Pear, a strange girl in her own right, having learned little of the spoken language, did not recognize the two intruders for who they were, but greeted them nonetheless. The pain in the two mother’s hearts throbbed the way the furious wings of a trapped bird beat against its cage. They wanted to take the girl, rescue her from her ill-fated life, but this never happened. The two left and in a few days were in the mountains.

Prickly Pear began to cultivate the area around the spring.  Corn was the mainstay. At first, Painted Horse would not let her diverge the water or dam it up. Painted Horse took a small pot, dipped it into the water and handed it to his daughter. She would transport the water to her flourishing crops. Such a tedious method could not last long, and late one night while Painted Horse slept, Prickly Pear diverted the left rill of water and ran in into her crops, creating small irrigation ditches. Oddly, Painted Horse never said a word. Another change occurred around this time. Prickly Pear disappeared for days at a time and then returned with supplies from either a neighboring clan or the settlement. Then, one day, she disappeared altogether. When she came back, at the age of thirteen, she brought a Navajo with her. They built their own hogan near the crops and carried on as if Painted Horse did not exist.

Did Painted Horse exist? He rarely ate the food Prickly Pear brought him. He moved his hogan to the new, larger island created from the diverted stream, which by some strange miracle never flooded even during runoff. He spent his days staring at the rock and collecting water in his pot and drinking from it. His body turned ghostlike in its appearance. It seemed he had forgotten what the cracked rock represented but persevered in his ritual. He spent nights swaying back and forth, staring at the rock, sometimes not even moving from where he sat that morning.

A year after moving to her own hogan, Prickly Pear brought forth a child. The young girl grew rapidly, and at the age of three, began sitting with Painted Horse during the days, laughing at the water and the rock and her granddad. But Painted Horse knew nothing of her existence. He continued his vigil of staring at the rock, collecting water from the stream and staring at the rock some more.

The child turned five and continued to sit by her grandfather’s side. Overtime, she learned not to ask questions but to sit in silence and let the water or the rock teach her what they could. The child was too young to understand specifics, as in what caused Painted Horse his pain, but susceptible to true and undistilled emotion, she learned he had aches too grand to be spoken. She began to ache with him, to ache for him.

One morning, the young child woke up early, startled from a bad dream, and walked out to be with Painted Horse. When she came to the water, she found her grandfather with his face down in the water. The water streamed over his entire body and illuminated his skin. The child poked her grandfather, but he did not move. She went and got her mother, explaining that Painted Horse had joined the water. Prickly Pear and her husband bolted from the hogan. It was not shock so much as awe they experienced as they looked at the dead body immersed in the pristine water. And it was not grief so much as relief when they realized his endeavor had come to an end. The child never could forget the image of her grandfather being washed over by the water.

Little was said between the three. Painted Horse had long ceased to be any different than a rock or a tree to Prickly Pear. What does one say when a rock falls or a tree burns down? Prickly Pear and her husband removed the naked body from the water, placed it in the hogan on the island and lit the poles on fire. Within minutes the entire structure caved in and continued to smolder and burn until it became nothing but ash. The three Navajo then returned to tend their crops as if nothing had happened.

One week later, the three gathered up their belongings, and left the area to return to civilization.

“And that is where the history ends.”

“Well it ends unresolved, Joshua. What of the little girl? What of Painted Horse? Was he reunited with his love? What of the rock? Does it still spill forth water?”

“Hold on Doc. Maybe you could use a little treatment yourself. I was getting to that. The little girl was my great grandmother who just passed away, and obviously the image of her grandfather in the water never left her mind. Whether or not Painted Horse was reunited with Ghost Flower depends on whether or not you believe in the underworld. And yes, it is left unresolved. This is what bothered my great grandmother. This is why her wish is for me to return. But what does she expect me to find or find out? This is why the myths drive me crazy. The end of the search never lives up to the hopes one had when it began. If you ask me it is all just a bunch of hogwash.”

“Hogwash, huh? Didn’t you say your great grandmother moved back to the weeping rock?”

“Yes. When she was eighteen, her and her husband went back and fixed up her mother’s hogan. They lived in it until the government forced them onto a reservation.”

“Did she ever go back after that?”

“Not once. Although when I visited her two days before she died, that was all she could talk about. She kept saying to me eerily: ‘Does the water run? Does the water still run?’ I finally had to calm her down by saying I was sure it still ran.”

“Do you think it still runs?”

“I guess I will find out this weekend. I have the old maps of the area, and a dirt road leads to within a mile of Weeping Rock Canyon. They built it for a nearby mine. I am not thrilled about it, but I guess I will go and see.”

“Joshua, this is good news. I hope the waters still run like crazy and the myth continues with your kids when you tell them about how you went and saw the water running from the rock.”

“Don’t count on it, Doc. I doubt any stream or rock exists.”

“When will I see you again? I want to hear about your findings.”

“Doc, like I said. I’m done. I’ve had enough of this therapy stuff. I consider myself cured.”

“You won’t be returning then?”

“No. This is the end of the road for us. I’m going to go out there and see for myself what exists, and then I am going to come back to civilization, return to my job, sell vacuums and pretend this never happened. Thanks for your help Doc. I’m sorry I won’t be returning.”

VI

The scrunch of rock and the squeak of brakes halted. Joshua had reached the end of the road. He took his backpack, loaded down with amenities, and headed for Weeping Rock Canyon. The trail winded through the high desert plain, zigzagging around eroded run-off beds and large boulders. The blooming sage’s pungent odor caused Joshua to sneeze every once in a while. The rabbit brush and sparse Indian paintbrush dazzled the desert floor, and every now and again, Joshua would pass a shattered beer bottle or empty 22 casings that sparkled in the sun. After fifteen minutes of walking, Joshua entered the canyon. The large red rocks almost took on human form, almost caused Joshua to believe the world possessed a soul. He followed the sandy wash and within minutes stood in front of the old hogan his great grandmother had refurbished so many years ago. The wood had rotted and smelled of decay. The entire structure had caved in and been covered in dirt. Crested Wheat Grass sprouted between the poles. Joshua took off his backpack and set it against the hogan. He walked towards the stream bed. He could see where the water had run. He could make out the small island where Painted Horse must have built his hogan. The area was still raised from the eroded bed. He made it to the rock. He examined the rock closely, and could just make out a slight crack, no larger than a fingernail. The crack ran down the middle of the rock. Underneath the rock, a sort of hole had been funneled out from where the water must have bubbled forth. But all was dry now, desert dry. The stream had not taken on water since spring runoff. Joshua turned around and went to retrieve his backpack.

He unfolded the tent on the island, put the tent poles in their appropriate place then buried the stakes into the sand. A strong wind would probably still blow the tent away. Joshua threw his pack in the tent to give it an anchor. He gathered wood for the night and then took a short hike. The hike led to a lookout point above the canyon. Joshua scanned the high desert and saw the rock formations dotting the land, casting shadows. “Well the view is probably worth the trip,” he murmured. When he got back to his camp, he realized he had gotten to his destination too early and quickly grew bored. During the day, he knew, no revelation or insight would come to him. He would have to wait until nightfall. “What was it,” he thought to himself, “Great Grandmother thought would happen to me out here? Did she think the water would actually still be running, or Painted Horse’s soul still inhabit the place?” Joshua left such musings for later. He took out his copy of Wall Street Journal and waited for the sun to drop.

When the sun began its descent, the canyon turned cold. Joshua gathered wood and started to make a fire, placing the kindling on top of the morning newspaper. The fire lit easily and energetically burst to flame. Joshua added logs to the fire then sat down next to it. Dead branches crackled, embers glowed, and the sun disappeared.

The fire cast eerie shadows upon the red rock, and soon echoes of animals nearby could be heard. Joshua prepared his meal and ate. He began to imagine things. He thought he saw shadows scurry along the red rock. He thought he heard the wail of a human. He knew, however, his mind conjured up images he had subconsciously hoped to see, much in the same way one adrift at sea for three weeks believes he sees a green speck amongst all the blue. Joshua put the thoughts aside, pulled out his small am/fm radio and listened to the nightly news until the stars appeared.

Soon, he called it a night. He entered his tent, took off his shoes and socks, placed the flashlight by his head, and fell asleep. He did not wake up during the night. He did not dream or have a vision of anything. He just slept.

The desert’s true majesty is revealed in the morning before the sun sends life to rest and causes it to seek shelter. Joshua stretched his well-rested arms and bellowed out the yawn of one thoroughly invigorated. He stoked the remaining embers and added some small logs to the fire. With such a beautiful morning, he decided to have breakfast before packing up and leaving. He put the bacon in the pan and cracked two eggs into the accumulating grease. Waiting for it to cook, Joshua looked once more at the rock. The crack looked more visible now and appeared to have split further during the night. Joshua moved closer to the rock. He surmised the crack was the same width but only appeared deeper because of the angle of the sun. “Trick of the brain,” he said to himself. Wondering how he’d missed it the day before, he saw the graffitied words, “Sam was here,” etched into the rock. He laughed then left the rock and went back to tend his bacon and eggs.

Joshua finished breakfast, cleaned up after himself then repacked everything. He put the pack on his back, tightened the waist strap and was on the verge of leaving. He walked up to the rock one last time in hopes to see wet sand underneath, any indication that water still poured forth, but it remained dry. He turned and headed out of the canyon. Joshua had a strange thought while walking out of the canyon. He thought maybe he should return with a shovel and dig underneath the rock to see if he could find water. He pictured himself performing this strange act and elation surged through his body. He thought he could see water, just below the surface, now boiling up and starting to flow the way the spring once had. He pictured all this, thought about how strange it seemed and said to himself: “Maybe I should dig a well on the very spot where the rock sits, build a house nearby and find a nice local girl to marry, a quaint Navajo perhaps.” But this never happened.