Stone Butterfly (22 page)

Moon stood before a mirror mounted on the closet door, adjusted the damp hat, cocked his head this way and that. “Funny thing, how people can surprise you.”

“What people?”

“You remember Yadkin Dixon—the fella who comes begging at your back door?”

“I'd rather forget him.” She snorted. “The good-for-nothing thief.”

“Well, turns out he's good for something.”

Another snort. “So is pig manure.”

“Mr. Dixon was the eyewitness to Deputy Packard's accident at the Piedra bridge.” Moon adjusted the Stetson just a tad. “And he risked his life in an attempt to save the deputy. Which makes him a hero of sorts.”

Daisy thought about this, came to an uncharitable conclusion. “I bet ol' Yad risked his life to try to loot the drowning man's car.” But this news had quite taken the wind out of her sails.
Maybe—like my mother always said—there is some good in everybody. Even that beady-eyed
matukach
moocher.
But for the set-in-her-ways old woman, this was an unsettling thought. So she dismissed it.

Not long after Charlie Moon's departure, Daisy Perika got herself ready for bed. Once under the colorful quilt, she lay very still. For a long time, she tried to think of
nothing.
This was not possible. For a longer time, she watched countless beads of rain beat against the windowpane. But her old ears could not hear the rain. Not on the double-pane window, not on the roof. Her almost-new house was too well-insulated to admit the soothing sounds of Nature's lullaby.

Somewhere on the far side of midnight, Daisy got out of her warm bed, pulled on her slippers and a heavy overcoat that had been the property of her third husband. It was of the type and vintage popular during the 1940s in cities like Chicago and Detroit. The inside breast pocket on the left side—placed to be convenient to a gunman's right hand—was just the right size and shape to hold a short-barreled .38 Special. Daisy did not own such a weapon. As has been mentioned, she was a 12-gauge shotgun sort of personality, and the up-front kind of shooter who would never think of concealing a weapon.

She left her house by the back door, padded through wet sand to the tiny camping trailer. Once inside, she shed the overcoat and slippers, plopped her weary body onto a chilly cot, pulled a coarse woolen blanket up to her nose.

Ahh…that's much better.

What was much better was that she could distinctly hear distant rumbles, and rain pattering on the metal shell—Grandmother Thunder's soporific spell. Within minutes, she had taken leave for that world-without-laws where anything can happen. At first, it was a peaceful slumber.

Then, it was not.

When the dreamer awakened on the cot, a driving rain was rattling on the camping trailer's thin metal shell, sudden gusts of wind rocked the flimsy structure, riveted joints squeaked and creaked, and Daisy's old frame was shaking like she had caught a hard chill. While she stared up into the noisy blackness the trembling of her limbs gradually subsided, but the heavy message of the night-vision pressed on her chest like a massive stone.

Sarah Frank is dead.

Unwilling to accept what her fears
knew
to be true, the shaman reminded herself that her visions were not always perfectly accurate projections of the future. Most of them provided warnings of some calamity that
might
occur unless someone (usually herself) took bold action to prevent it, and she grudgingly admitted that a very few of these “revelations” managed to get things upside-down and backward. These uncharacteristically modest thoughts Daisy-chained her to another, even more demeaning possibility:
Maybe it wasn't a vision at all—just a bad dream.
Which reminded the tribal elder of her nephew, who (so it seemed) took the view
all
of her visions were merely dreams.
The big gourd-head!
She imagined herself whacking the unbelieving relative across the knees with her oak walking stick, and—when the imaginary nephew winced with intense pain—this revenge on the skeptic gave the offended party a measure of satisfaction. Before her conscience could slip a word in edgewise, Daisy cut it off:
Charlie Moon had it coming—if he hadn't told me about that Utah deputy driving his car into the Piedra, and how he must've come here looking for Sarah, I'd never have dreamed about him going to the place where I told the girl to hide.
Daisy Perika turned on her side, nudged her face into the lumpy little pillow. Of their own accord, her eyes closed.
If it was just a nightmare, it was all Charlie Moon's fault—if it wasn't for him, I'd have dreamed about something else.
A weary yawn.
Something nice, maybe. Like fields full of purple asters and them olden times when I was young and pretty and my little son was still alive and happy and…
She was whisked away into that dusky, timeless land where past and future stroll hand in hand. On this occasion, the dreams were sweeter and joy filled the hours.

Chubby little boy, chasing a frisky brown puppy through fields thick with flowers.

Pretty Daisy, running after him, laughing—black hair flying in a perfumed breeze.

But it seemed odd (her youthful version thought) that in the vast blue sky, there were no birds on the wing—only a single butterfly.

When she finally drifted up from this field of dreams, to skim along the interface with Middle World—this thought passed through her mind:
Soon as the sun comes up, I'll go find Sarah and tell her about that cop from Utah. If he didn't drown in the Piedra—not that I'm hoping he did, God—he might come back and cause us some trouble.

The morning that followed the Shaman's nightmare was not of that exhilarating sort where a valiant sun, gleaming sword unsheathed, charges boldly over the horizon to obliterate the lingering remnants of last night's noisy storm troopers. This blushing dawn was held at bay by a thugish mob of rumbling thunderheads. To the shaman's ears, it seemed the brawny gathering was tumbling boulders into the canyon—and mumbling ominous warnings of worse to come.

These rude demonstrations did not deter Daisy Perika.

Before the first crack of dawn had echoed off the towering cliffs, she was filling a hemp bag with food, a quart Thermos of honeyed coffee, wooden kitchen matches, warm woolen socks, and other such necessities as a girl in hiding might require.

With the sturdy oak staff clenched in her hand and the bulging sack looped over her shoulder, Charlie Moon's aunt entered the gaping mouth of the canyon—only to discover that the year-round stream that typically trickled lightly along the sandy bottom of
Cañón del Espíritu
had swollen overnight into a muddy, roiling creek. In places, it was knee-deep. Leaning on her walking stick, the intrepid hiker proceeded to get her feet wet. The water she waded in was numbingly cold, and choked with silt from far up the canyon. It occurred to Daisy that fording this stream might turn out to be a serious mistake; perhaps her final one.
If I was to fall down, I might not be able to get up again.
She quaked with a bone-rattling shudder.
I don't want Charlie Moon to find my body stuck in some bank, me with my mouth full of mud and ravens pecking at my entrails and my eyes staring wide open like a pair of poached eggs!
Daisy's long list of shortcomings did not include a lack of imagination. But the image of perishing in these rushing waters—much like that deputy from Utah who had ended up in the far deeper and more dangerous waters of the Piedra—was a picture that brought all her native stubbornness to the surface. The tribal elder set her jaw like iron, made up her mind. She would simply refuse to die in this place.
When my spirit crosses over that last river, I intend for my body to be in bed. I'll be decked out in my best polka-dot nightgown and my long white stockings and have my hair done up in a braid. But if it happens outside, I won't give up the ghost unless I'm on dry earth.

And having decided to stand, she did not fall.

Once across the stream, Daisy set her face toward the barely discernible path that snaked its sinuous way up the steep slope where, for thousands upon thousands of winters, water trapped in the cracks and fissures of Three Sisters Mesa had frozen, thawed, and frozen in endless cycles. With the infinite patience of Nature's tireless rhythms, the recurring contractions and expansions had gradually loosened great slabs of sandstone. These were compelled by Gravity's decree to tumble down and reside alongside those of their kin already resting in the haphazard jumble. This process eventually fitted the broad waist of the mesa with an enormous skirt of stony rubble.

The aged woman moved along the precipitous path with considerable caution. One false step could end in a fall, possibly a broken hip or leg. In this wilderness, where an injured person might not be discovered for days, even a sprained ankle might result in a lonely, lingering death. She could clearly see the gory scene:
If I took a slip and broke something, come nightfall the foxes and coyotes would be all over me. Snapping and biting and fighting over the pitiful little bit of meat left on my bones.
As she watched the spectacle develop, a cougar arrived, chased the coyotes and foxes away. She was about to cheer the tawny brute, when the big cat picked up the remains of her corpse in its jaws, dragged it away for a private feast. Daisy scowled at the imagined affront, gripped her oak staff like the club it was, readied herself in case a mountain lion dared such a discourtesy while she still had a breath of life in her.
If he so much as shows his fuzzy face, I'll give him such a whack that he'll forget his name and next of kin!

In the Cavern

After pausing a dozen times to huff and puff like a worn-out old workhorse, Daisy Perika finally arrived at the narrow bench that separated the talus slope from the sheer cliff that rose up to the crest of Three Sisters Mesa. Standing near the dead ponderosa, whose lightning-splintered branch still smoldered with resinous smoke, she gazed hopefully at the little hole-in-the-wall. As if someone who should not hear might be lurking nearby, she spoke in a hissing whisper: “Sarah—it's me. Daisy.”

An unsavory serving of silence fed the old woman's fears.

Pegging at the stony earth with her walking stick, Daisy approached the dark slot, raised her voice in a quaking plea. “Sarah—you in there?”

Still no response.

Daisy unhitched the hemp bag from her shoulder, rummaged around in it until she found the box of wooden matches. The aged woman bent her already bowed back, stepped into the darkness, struck a sulfurous tip on the gritty wall. She held the miniature torch in front of her face; the flickering flame was mirrored in the shaman's eyes. On the sandstone walls, pale yellow light-wraiths danced with sinister shadows. Whatever other presences might reside in this place, Provo Frank's orphaned daughter was not among them. And there was no sign of the blanket Daisy had given Sarah, or the girl's backpack—or for that matter, the cat. When the match burned down to scorch her fingertips, Daisy dropped it, struck a fresh one, held it knee-high to inspect the floor of the small cavern. There were a few girl-sized footprints in the sand, and a small plastic bag filled with something that looked like candy. The Ute woman bent her aching knees, snatched up the candy bag, held the match flame close to the label.
Gummy bears. My goodness, what will they think of next?
She absentmindedly dropped the sticky, sugary food into her coat pocket.
Maybe she had enough of sleeping in caves and decided to go back to my house, where it's warm and dry.
Daisy nibbled at her lower lip.
But there's only one way down from here, and out of the canyon. If Sarah had left before I set out to find her, she'd have already been at the house this morning. And if she left any later than that, I would've met her on my way into the canyon. And I didn't see her tracks in the wet sand. So she's still somewhere in Spirit Canyon.
Somewhere covered a lot of space.
You could hide a herd of buffalo in this place.

When Daisy emerged from the darkness, the cloud-filtered daylight made her squint. As she stood under a gaunt, outstretched ponderosa limb, the Ute elder saw a black something in the sky above the canyon. It was circling, rising and falling in a capricious thermal.
It's too big to be a raven.
She lifted a hand to shade her eyes.
What is it—an eagle, or a hawk? If I could see the tips of the wings, I'd know.
As the self-propelled aviator suddenly swooped lower, she realized that it was neither.
That stinky buzzard probably figures I'm the next best thing to dead meat.

But when she dropped her gaze to look down the talus slope, Daisy caught her breath. Far below, at the very bottom of the jumble of angular boulders, was the soul-chilling residue of last night's nightmare. Daisy's legs wobbled; she leaned against the lightning-scarred ponderosa, closed her eyes, relived the terrible vision as if it were happening at this very moment. As before, she saw Sarah emerge from the cave, scream at the white man who was holding Mr. Zig-Zag close to his chest.

But on this occasion, there was more detail.

Because Daisy knew what she would find, the descent along the narrow path proved considerably more difficult than the arduous climb. As she took one step at a time, foreboding thoughts nibbled at her mind like rats gnawing in the walls of an old house.
How did that deputy know where Sarah was hiding? Maybe he was watching my house and saw her go into Spirit Canyon and followed her up to the cave. He must've wanted to arrest her and take her back to Utah. I don't think he had intended to kill her—that was practically an accident. But he must've been feeling awfully guilty about what he'd done and wanted to get away as fast as he could—that's why he was driving so fast and missed the bridge. And now he's dead too—drowned in the Piedra.
Barely recovering from a stumble that almost made her tumble, Daisy's thoughts shifted to Sarah Frank's death.
Poor little thing must have suffered a lot, rolling down that rocky slope, her bones breaking like dry sticks. Oh, God—I hope I get to her before that scabby buzzard does!
But even without the depredations of the scavenger, it would be terrible enough. During her time on this earth, the tribal elder had seen dozens of corpses, and knew that this experience would be among the worst.

When Daisy finally arrived, she was furious to discover that the circling vulture and a pair of his famished mates had arrived ahead of her.
“Paga-nukwi!”
she shouted, “Go away!”

Unfazed by these rude commands, the feathered scavengers continued to feed.

Shedding the thin veneer of her civilized ways, the Ute woman let out a barbarous whoop and attacked—flailing at the startled diners with her walking stick.

The vultures withdrew—though only a few awkward hop-steps away, where they strutted about indignantly, flapping dusty wings, croaking throaty protests at the wild-eyed biped.

Knowing she must now face the corpse close at hand, Daisy steeled herself.
What I'll do is tell myself over and over: “This isn't Sarah—this is just the left-behinds.”
Clenching her teeth as she approached the corpse, Daisy rehearsed the comforting words.
This isn't Sarah…this isn't Sarah…

But the tough old woman was stunned by what she saw on the stones: pink flesh ripped to shreds, a tangle of broken limbs, the sickening silvery shine of exposed bones, a slack-jawed skull staring from empty sockets…. Daisy held her breath; this unspeakable horror bore not the slightest resemblance to the little girl with the enormous brown eyes. Indeed, if it were not for the human skull and the torn clothing, this might be mistaken for the mangled carcass of some wild animal.

She heard herself whispering: “This isn't Sarah…this isn't Sarah…”

But Daisy's world had been turned upside down. Head spinning, knees quaking, she leaned on her oak staff until the earth stopped moving under her feet. When it did, the backsliding Catholic crossed herself.
Oh, God—help me to understand.

Understanding was granted. Other, more precious gifts were also forthcoming.

For the first time in many days, Daisy closed her eyes and prayed—addressing her petition to
my Lord Jesus Christ.
For an indeterminate time, she was at peace.

Alas, the sweetest moments pass most swiftly.

And though a few questions remained unanswered, mulling over these lesser mysteries could wait until those cold, gray days of Dead Leaves Falling, when she would sit near the fire with a mug of steaming coffee, and muse about hidden things. At the moment, there were important decisions to make.

A part of Daisy was eager to hurry home, telephone Charlie Moon, and tell him what she had discovered in
Cañón del Espíritu.
Her nephew always knew exactly what to do. That would be the sensible course of action. But with some problems, the “sensible” path was not the best one to take. In this instance, it might be better simply to wait, and at least for a season—let the dead lie quietly.

The tribal elder seated herself by the grisly remains.

It was terribly difficult work, but this woman had the Old People's blood coursing through her veins. For her ancestors, life had been a hard business. Something bad happens, you deal with it, then look forward to the next sunrise. By the time the sun was behind the mesa, she had covered the broken body with slabs of sandstone. The barely perceptible mound was camouflaged with bits of dry sticks, even transplanted tufts of grass.

When she had completed her labors, Daisy Perika was confident that the buzzards would never feast on what was left of
this
flesh. Moreover, she had concealed the remains so well that no one would ever find them. She frowned. No one except Charlie Moon—that man could find a pea-sized brown pebble in a bushel of pinto beans.
But only if he was looking for it.
She would have to make sure her nephew had no reason to start snooping around in Spirit Canyon. When the right day came—if it ever did—she would bring him to the makeshift burial. In the meantime, there were serious matters to think about; plans to be made and carried out. Pushing herself to her feet, she stood by the grave, scanned the canyon walls, listened. Her eyes saw nothing. Her ears heard nothing—except for harsh protests from the deprived buzzards, who circled overhead, croaking their righteous complaints.