The Shaman Laughs (17 page)

His answer was silence, punctuated by occasional puffs of Flying Dutchman smoke. As she was wondering how the dwarf might be encouraged to tell her what he knew, Daisy felt herself slipping away. Back. Upward toward Middle World. In a moment, she was once again inside her old, arthritic body, her head resting on a sweat-soaked pillow. With some effort, she swung her aching legs over the edge of the mattress and pushed her feet into a pair of worn leather slippers that had belonged to her second husband. "Sleep has left this house," she said aloud, "I might as well get myself up." She felt an urgent need to hold fast to Middle World. It would be good to do something ordinary. Make a pot of coffee, fry an egg in the iron skillet. Then, the vision would not seem so real. So compelling.

Arlo Nightbird felt good. Very good. He steered the Mercedes along the gravel road with one hand and searched for his bottle with the other. There was one last problem to deal with before the government money began flowing into the reservation like the waters of the Pinos. Then, he would be the most influential man in Ignacio. After that… who could say what his future might hold? Maybe an appointed office in state government. Maybe more. Ben Nighthorse-Campbell, the Northern Cheyenne, had made it all the way to the United States Senate. Arlo grinned. If an honest man like the Cheyenne rancher could go that far, what was the potential for a clever businessman who was willing to break a rule here and there? His potential, Arlo decided, was limited only by his imagination. And his will. And the immediate impediment in his path to glory was a pathetic old woman. Hardly, he thought, a worthy challenge.

Daisy had felt the presence of the storm since before daylight, long before there was a fragrant hint of rain in the breeze from the west or the least hint of cloud in the pale cobalt sky. Now, the rumbling gray clouds were rolling over the crest of Three Sisters Mesa. She sniffed at the damp air whipping her kitchen curtain. A heavy storm was coming, with rain that would produce rushing torrents in the ar-royos—thunder that would rattle the aluminum walls of her flimsy trailer home, lightning that would snap like a great whip of fire across the mesas. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and waited for the first drops of rain. The old woman was surprised when she heard the sound of the engine; it was well muffled. This was not Gorman's old pickup truck, neither was it Charlie Moon's big four-wheel-drive police car. This was something else. The old woman pushed the frayed cotton curtain aside and rubbed a little circle of moisture off the window. Yes, the car was turning into her lane, but this was an automobile she didn't recognize. It was long, and sleek, and the color of wild strawberries. Or, she thought with a ripple of apprehension, of freshly spilled blood. This was an expensive automobile, and she wasn't acquainted with folk who drove expensive cars. Daisy waited at the window to see who would get out. She sucked in a short breath when she recognized Arlo Nightbird. He stepped out of the car, pulled his expensive breeches up over his belly to raise his cuffs above the dirt in her yard, then almost tiptoed toward the trailer.

Daisy listened to the old wooden steps creak as Arlo mounted the porch. He impatiently kicked aside the tools left behind from Gorman's half-finished repairs. Daisy entertained a fanciful picture of Arlo stepping through a weak plank and breaking his leg. He didn't. Instead, he pounded hard on the aluminum door. "Daisy," he bellowed, "you in there?"

For a moment, Daisy Perika considered not opening the door. If she had taken this course of action, the future of the Southern Ute Tribe would have been altered in unimaginable ways. But she opened the door, and the die was forever cast.

"What do you want… Arlo Nightbird." She spat the words out, mouthing his name as if it was a distasteful obscenity.

Arlo grinned stupidly; she smelled whisky on his breath. "Caught you in a raw mood, did I? Just came by to bring some news. All right if I come in?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Looks like rain."

"Rain's a minute away. Don't expect you'll be here that long." Daisy stepped onto the porch; better not to let him into the house. If Arlo was drunk, he might pass out, or throw up on the linoleum.

He had lost the dumb grin. "I came by to offer some help."

"Help… from you?" In spite of her nasty mood, Daisy found this statement unaccountably amusing. She smiled. "Guess there's got to be a first time. Help away."

Arlo relaxed. He used his boot-tip to shove the crowbar to the edge of the porch, and leaned on the pine railing. It swayed. Daisy wondered if it might break. She imagined this little peacock falling off backward and her grin spread wider.

He drew a deep breath. Best to get it done. "You heard that the tribal council approved the Economic Development Board's proposal?" Daisy's face was blank. "The plan," he continued, "to get government money to study the feasibility of storing nuclear waste in Spirit Canyon."

This little apple even sounded like a
matukach
. Red on the outside. White on the inside. "Gorman told me," she muttered, "you gonna make him move his cows out of the sacred canyon?"

"Ain't my idea, it's one of them government requirements," Arlo said, "they'll all have to be out in the next couple of weeks."

"If that garbage is so safe, why can't Gorman keep his stock in the canyon? He gonna get two-headed calves?"

"It's perfectly safe," Arlo said, "it's just that the feds won't perform a study on any site with animals or people living nearby."

Daisy felt a sickness deep in her abdomen. "People? There's no people in
Canon del Espiritu
."

Arlo removed a three-page memorandum from his coat pocket and held it near Daisy's face. "These are the rules. No domestic animals, no endangered species, no human domiciles within two miles of a proposed storage site."

She squinted at the tiny print. "What's dom-eye-ciles?"

"Houses where people live on a regular basis. Like your place."

"My place?" The sickening sensation became nausea; the old woman backed up against the door for support.

"Yeah, Daisy, your place. You live too damn close to the canyon site. But don't worry…"

"Don't worry?" She stared at Arlo's pudgy face in disbelief. "I've lived here for most of my life… Before we had this trailer, my first husband built an adobe, over there…" she pointed a trembling finger at the pitiful ruin, but Arlo ignored her pleas.

"What I mean, Daisy, this is a real piece of luck. Since you have to move for this deal to stick, the tribe's going to pay for all your moving expenses, and provide you with a new house in that development south of Ignacio. Running water, electricity, cable television…"

"I got electricity here," she said defiantly, "and I got a fine well with a good Sears-and-Roebuck pump. I could have had one of those cardboard-box houses anytime I wanted it."

Arlo was determined. "But cable TV, Daisy, real good pictures, even the Movie Channel."

"Cable TV is for folks who want to watch naked people," Daisy snapped. "I don't need none of that trash." She folded her arms resolutely. "It's a free country. I'm staying put, right here."

"You got no choice," Arlo said with a dark scowl, "you got to get out and you got three weeks flat. You don't move, I'll send the police out to arrest you."

Daisy drew herself up to her full height, which was an inch greater than Arlo's. "Listen to this, you poor imitation of a Ute, you're not one of the People, you never have been. I've got a
matukach
friend that's three times the Ute you'll ever be and he's chief of police until Severo gets back. And you think Charlie Moon is goin' to throw his aunt out of her own house?"

Arlo opened his mouth to reply, but stammered impo-tently.

"Listen, you little wart on a pig's belly," Daisy continued, gathering steam, "don't let me see your homely face on this land again or I'll reach down your throat, grab your little ass, and jerk you inside out!" She leaned over stiffly and picked up the crowbar.

Arlo backed against the railing, the rotten pine gave way with a heavy groan, and Daisy saw the soles of his boots fly upward as he tumbled backward. The man hit the ground with a dull thump; he tried to speak but the breath was knocked from his lungs. When he got up on one knee, he found some of his wind. "You pushed me… tried to kill me, you damned old witch. That's… that's
assault
." He drew a deep breath and coughed. "I'll have you thrown in jail, you'll never see this dump again…" Daisy was standing on her porch, gripping the crowbar like a baseball bat, muttering weighty curses in archaic Ute.

Arlo instinctively reached for his sheath knife. This offense was too much for the old woman to bear; she raised Gorman's rusty crowbar over her shoulder. Arlo's eyes widened. "Don't… no…" He managed to get to his feet, backed toward his expensive red automobile, attempting to shield his face with both arms.

The shaman muttered an old incantation for victory over her enemies, then flung the crowbar at Arlo Nightbird with every ounce of strength in her frail body. There was a scream followed by a sickening crunch as the heavy steel implement impacted. Daisy stood, open-mouthed with surprise as she viewed the startling consequence of her fury. No… no… this was not at all what she had intended. Arlo was finally, for the first time since he learned to speak, at a loss for words. He made no sound, none at all, and this frightened her far more than his threats. Now, she knew, there would be the devil to pay.

As Daisy considered what she should do next, the rains came.

Emily Nightbird dialed the number at her husband's Economic Development Board office and waited. Ten rings. Fifteen. No answer. She dialed another number. On the second ring, she heard Herb Ecker's greeting. "Nightbird Insurance," he announced with European formality, "how may we be of service?"

"It's Emily Nightbird. I'm surprised to find you at work so late."

"I have considerable paperwork to catch up on."

Herb had no apparent social life. Arlo thought Herb, who donated hours of free overtime, was a bargain. Emily found him to be somewhat…
peculiar
. She tried hard to make her inquiry sound casual. "Is my husband there?"

There was a hesitation before he answered. "No, Mrs. Nightbird. He was here immediately after lunch, then…" No. It was not his place to reveal to this woman where her husband went. Arlo had made that crystal clear the last time he "blabbed." Herb cleared his throat. "I am uncertain precisely where he is… at this moment."

Emily nibbled at a stubby fingernail. "Did he say when he was coming back? We have a reservation at the Strater in thirty minutes." She immediately regretted this admission.

"I am sorry," Herb said. "He did not tell me when he would return."

She said good-bye and slammed the receiver down. Tears welled up in her eyes. Emily clenched her fists. "I will not cry. I will not!" Thirteen years ago, when she had told her parents about her engagement to the richest man in Ignacio, her father had spat into the fire-place and made his warning. Emily remembered his exact words. "I've knowed about Arlo Nightbird since he was a little boy. He's mean as sin and a skirt-chaser and won't make you a good husband." Daddy had been right. Emily dropped her face into her hands and wept.

The telephone rang. She grabbed it. Before she could speak, Emily heard her father's voice. "Hello, little girl."

She cleared her throat. "Hello, Daddy."

"What's wrong? You don't sound—"

Emily drew a deep breath. "I'm fine."

"Called to wish you a happy anniversary."

"That's kind of you." Her voice broke.

"Let me guess… it's your weddin' anniversary, and the little horse's-ass ain't there, is he?"

She gripped the telephone with white knuckles. "Daddy, I wish you wouldn't refer to Arlo as a… in that vulgar manner."

Fidel Sombra chuckled. His daughter had entirely too much of that fancy education. "I's'pose it
is
an insult to horses everywhere. Put the mule's ass on the line, maybe I'll apologize." Maybe, he thought, I'll ask him if he's picked up the clap from one of his whores.

"Arlo's not here. I expect him any minute now. We have a reservation at a restaurant in Durango." Emily paused as she heard the doorbell. "Just a minute." She carried the cordless extension to the door. She was disappointed, even irritated to see Cecelia Chavez. Why couldn't people call first if they wanted to visit; drop-ins were such an awful nuisance. The public health nurse appeared to be exhausted.

"I'm very busy right now," Emily said curtly.

"It's about the blood drive…" Cecelia was on her way in.

"Could it wait until tomorrow? I'm speaking to my father on the telephone."

Cecelia seemed not to have heard; she passed by and dropped her angular figure onto a sturdy couch.

Emily turned her back on this guest and lowered her voice as she spoke into the telephone receiver. "Cecelia Chavez is here; I expect she wants to give me the blood drive figures. From the expression on her face, we must be short of our goal again this year."

The old man snorted. "So where is your husband?" Out whoring around, he thought.

"I don't know where he is." Emily hoped Cecelia couldn't hear the conversation. A few months back, there had been talk. The nurse, the gossip was, had spent a few of her evenings with Arlo Nightbird. "I called Herb Ecker, but he doesn't know where Arlo is. Or won't say."

"I'll give him a call, and he'll damn well tell me where that worthless bastard is!"

"You leave Herb alone. I'll be fine." She tried to distract him. "And how are you, Daddy?"

"Hard as flint, tough as old rawhide."

"I appreciate your call. Really."

"I got hogs to feed. I'll come by tomorrow morning." He hung up.

Emily stared blankly at the telephone and wondered what to do. If Arlo didn't show up soon, she'd call the Strater and cancel the dinner reservations. She turned to the nurse. "Now," Emily asked with pretended cheerfulness, "what can I do for you, Cecelia?"

As the rain fell in sweeping torrents and the earth trembled under her feet with each deep rumble of thunder, Daisy struggled up the steep path across the talus slope toward her destination on Three Sisters Mesa. There was a sharp crack only yards ahead as a
zigzag
of lightning snapped the top of a pinon snag. The flash illuminated the concave shelter in the sandstone cliff. She slipped on a wet stone, stumbled to her knees, then pushed herself upright with the stout oak staff. Daisy clung tenaciously to her precious plastic bag. "Another two hundred steps," she wheezed, "and I'll be there, where it's always dry. One step at a time." She raised her staff. "Go away,
tona-pagay"
the shaman shouted to the lightning, "fly away to your home in the great mountains of the North, do not waste your powers to harm an old woman who," she added with a pitiful tone, "will die soon anyway." Heavy drops pelted the old woman, turning her path into slippery mud, but the lightning paused in its high-step across the mesa.