Wild Sorrow (29 page)

I heard a burst of cheering come from one edge of the plaza and saw fiery yellow flames licking at the air, rising and surging like a wild beast searching for a way to escape its cage of crosshatched logs. The Tanoah tribe had signaled through the ancient and venerable medium of fire the passage of day into night. It was now officially sundown. I checked my watch: five o'clock.

Soon, twenty more towering piñon bonfires sparked to life, and the smoke and incense from the sap of the wood rose in great dark clouds, spreading across the plain of the atmosphere, blackening the air. The crowd grew animated, aroused from its former cold-dulled lethargy by the exciting emergence of light and fire, man's primeval friend and enemy. The people began to shift and move, to merge into one mass, emitting a cacophony of sound that took on one murmuring voice, and this herd—with an innate sense that something was about to happen—then coursed toward the gates at the churchyard wall. I made back for my post on the packed earth at one corner of the plaza, where I could see more of what went on.

The bell in the belfry pealed three times, then the earsplitting crack of gunshots heralded the beginning of the procession. At the front of the line, at the gates of the churchyard, six strong, stone-faced Tanoah warriors led with their hunting rifles aimed skyward, firing shots into the air, the shells ejecting around them, the deafening report of the gunfire parting the crowd and causing those close by to put fingers in their ears. Alongside them, a group of two torchbearers with flaming poles held high. Next, a contingent of Tanoah drummers, their long, log-and-hide drums laced onto leather straps hung from one shoulder across the torso. These men were ceremonially dressed, each wearing a burnoose or a colorful scarf tied across the forehead, a white blanket, white cotton or buckskin trousers, and soft-soled moccasinlike boots. Accompanying the drummers were helpers, who assisted with the weight of the drums for the elder drummers, or who simply walked in tandem and chanted and sang. And behind them, a group of children from the pueblo, each carrying a pair of rattles made from the shells of turtles mounted on handles. They danced as they rattled and sang in Tiwa.

The onlooking crowd had now parted into two camps, one on each side of the procession. With each new contingent in the parade, another pair of warriors or torchbearers enforced the edges of the path so that there was sufficient room for the procession to pass through. The celebrants in the procession moved out from the ancient church at the east side of the plaza toward the south, the Summer side of the pueblo, while the spicy incense-laden smoke from the torches and bonfires created a curtain of black haze around them. The gunfire, the drumming, the chanting and singing—all created such a clamor that the skill of the mind to sort and separate sound seemed to vanish—and all this, together with the sights and the scents, melded into one magnificent sensory experience that spoke to something deeper than reason and understanding.

Pueblo elders came next, carrying the sacred santos and bultos from the church, and I saw Momma Anna among them carrying the bulto of San Quarai. Behind this, a group carried a litter bearing the Virgin Mary, and the women from the sidelines rushed in to kiss the hem of her white bridal gown, then disappeared back into the crowd of dark, indistinguishable shapes beyond the torchlight. Following the Virgin, a choir of women marched past singing
almas
in Spanish. And last: four Tanoah priests—each carrying a brilliant, blazing torch—led the sacred masked dancers, representing the spirits of the supernatural. These masked gods emerged through the smoke-laced darkness at the rear of the procession in their crocheted white leggings, their white woven kilts tied at the waist with long, colorful, fringed scarves, branches of cedar tucked in the waist and bound to their upper arms with cloth. Their naked upper bodies were painted white, their flesh rubbery in the relentless cold. Their eyes were open but unseeing, and they stepped off a silent rhythm, occasionally pausing in unison, holding one foot high. Each dancer in this prayer drama wore a unique mask. The Tanoah believed that the mask was the incorporate spirit of the supernatural it portrayed, and that when a dancer donned it, he became that spirit, and thus made the journey into that place of magic where he could commune with the gods. Through his dancing and chanting, his offerings and prayers, he was both the embodiment of the spirit and the summoner of its magic and power. Alongside the dancers, male protectors flanked, making a rapid, guttural trilling:
“Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh, heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.”

As the dancers came past, I examined each one's mask. Two wore deer masks, but in the darkness and the smoke, I could not make out whether either mask had downy feathers on the antler tips. I tried to press forward, to get to the front of the sideline, but the edge collapsed when the crowds surged inward as the last dancer went by, everyone joining in the march to the four directions.

Amid the jostling of the crowd and the deafening noise and chaos, I felt a tug at the sleeve of my coat. An adolescent girl dressed as a corn maiden looked up at me, her one bare shoulder blue with cold. “Aren't you the lady who has the wolf?” she shouted, trying to be heard above the din.

This was a bad time to have someone inquire about Mountain. I nodded my head yes, and looked back at the procession, which had now passed me by.

The girl tugged my sleeve again. “Someone is t . . .” Her voice disappeared into the pop of more gunfire as the procession moved away.

“What?”

“Someone is bothering him in the back of a car down there.” She pointed back down the narrow alley through which I had come. “I think they might be trying to hurt him.”

Left Out

I raced up the narrow alley, the noise of the procession fading into the distance as I went. But the smoke from the bonfires was still thick and hung in clouds between the buildings and along the wall. I ran through a fog of blackness past the cemetery, and was halfway down the plank steps leading over the wall when I thought to call Diane. Just as I retrieved it from my pocket, the Screech Owl sounded off, startling me. I quickly punched the green button. “Yes?” I kept walking.

“Jamaica, this is Lorena Coldfire. I'm so sorry to bother you on Christmas Eve, but I thought you would want to know. Someone has taken one of the traps. And we think the cubs might have been in it, because we saw their little tracks nearby.”

By now I had reached the edge of the corral. A mask hovered next to the Blazer, levitating in black space. It was an elegant molded-leather mask with the stylized white face of a deer, and a small set of antlers tipped with the white down of eagle feathers. A row of straight, green-painted sticks was set vertically above the forehead like a crown, and each of these twigs bore a tiny tuft of eagle down, too. Below the mask, the outline of a man's body began to emerge as I looked closer. He was not dressed as a dancer, but rather wore all black clothing, which nearly disappeared into the smoky night, so that the mask seemed to be floating, disembodied. I could hear Mountain in the back cargo area of the car, growling and threatening. The masked man held up a black-gloved hand and waved for me to come forward.

I reached with my free hand and unsnapped the guard on my holster. My fingers closed over the grip of my automatic. As I grew closer, I could see that the masked man held a pistol, its barrel pointed into the narrow opening made when I'd left the window partway down so Mountain would have fresh air.

I still held the cell phone up to my ear. “Lorena, I can't talk right now,” I said. “I've got to see a man about a wolf.” I punched the button to end the call.

“Throw it away from you.” The voice did not come from the mask, but rather behind me and to my left. It was Steel Hands.

When I heard his voice, the imprinted memory of unbearable pain sent an electric shock through my brain stem, and I gave an involuntary jerk. At the same time, a hot flame seared through my gut, and I thought I might wet myself, or cry. But I did neither. I threw the cell phone on the ground, my right hand still on my weapon.

“Your gun next,” Steel said. “Move slow. Leave it in the holster. Only use the tips of your fingers. Throw it to the side.”

I made a pretense of having difficulty with this request. “I have a sprained wrist,” I said, slowly easing my gun upward and out of the holster. I moved my head slightly to try to look around, but it was dark and smoky and I could not see much.

“Throw the gun or we shoot the wolf. Now.”

I sent supersonic probes to the farthest galaxies of my mind, desperately seeking a better idea, but I could not think of a thing to do except to comply. I dropped the gun back into the cup, drew the holster up from my belt until I felt the clip snap, then tossed it to the side. I heard footsteps running toward me from behind and someone slammed into my back, throwing strong arms around me and trapping my elbows against my sides. Another set of hands pulled my hat off and shoved a dark cloth bag over my head. I tried to stay upright, but they pulled me to the ground and worked quickly to tie my wrists and ankles.

“Help!” I yelled. “Help! Someone help me! Help!” But the able-bodied of Tanoah Pueblo were all at the procession, and the sounds of the drumming and gunshots drifted muted through the smoky air. I knew my screams were in vain.

I heard Mountain snapping and snarling, barking and banging at the windows of the car.

One of them threw me over his shoulder and carried me a short way, his collarbone pressing painfully into my cracked ribs. He slammed me down onto a long flat of cold metal. When I tried to get up, I received a hard chop to my abdomen, causing me to double up in pain. “You want more, like the last time, you keep it up,” Steel said. Two of them worked to push my legs flat, then stretch bungee cords tight over my feet, my thighs, my chest, pinning me down.

“But why me?” I yelled through the bag. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“We better gag her, bro.” I recognized Short's voice.

“I can't breathe!” I said as they fastened a gag right over the bag, pulling it so tight behind my head that it cut into the corners of my mouth. “I . . . ant . . . ee!”

I heard the engine crank on the UTV and then an arctic blast of freezing air rushed over me as we took off at top speed. My whole body jostled with every dip and turn as we rumbled off-road, the back of my head banging against the cargo skid, a constant jarring vibration shaking my brain like a rattle. The noise of the motor roared right in my ear and exhaust poured out from beneath me, sickening me so that I prayed I wouldn't have to puke, knowing I would choke to death on my own vomit if I did. The air was so cold that I began to shake with chills. For a time I felt biting pain in my hands, my feet, my nose, and then my body began to work hard to survive as it closed down the circulation to my arms and legs, preserving my vital organs. My shivering subsided, my fingers and toes went numb. Speeding through the frozen, dry-desert night created a cryonic mistral that instantly dehydrated me; with my mouth forced open by the gag, it freeze-dried my tongue. My throat ached with thirst and I could not swallow. I knew that delirium was creeping in when—instead of trying to figure a way to escape my bonds—all I could think about was oranges.

The UTV slowed and idled for a long stretch. I could hear the two men talking, but the noise of the engine was too loud for me to make out what they were saying. I worked hard to move my fingers and my toes, at first without any success at all. Then gradually a little movement in the hands, and then pain—such a deep, aching pain in my feet—as I managed to wiggle my toes. And then the vehicle stopped. A gale of frigid air blasted me, and I realized that it was not just the speed of the UTV that had been causing the freezing wind. We were out on the mesa.

When the bungee cord lifted off my chest, I drew in a breath and felt how desiccated my nose and throat had become, the soft tissue at the back of my mouth like parchment, unable to flex without tearing. They picked me up—one at each end—the way they had taken me to the place under the cottonwoods, only this time I didn't struggle. Whatever they were going to do to me now, I was not going to risk another beating. I couldn't. If there was a way to survive, I had to keep what little strength I had.

They dumped me on the ground and I didn't move. Grit and dirt blew right through the bag over my head and blasted my face. I heard them shuffling around, then one of them picked me up from under my arms and dragged me a few feet, sitting me upright against what felt like a post. The bitter wind drove against my chest, and I heard a groaning sound as they stretched a rope around me, making painfully tight loops at my waist and across my chest beneath my breasts. They lashed me to the post, my hands tied behind me, my legs outstretched in front of me, my ankles bound together.

“Want to see what we've got in store for you?” Steel said. He tugged on the bag around my head and I felt him maneuver a knife tip through the cloth, then draw it up, slicing the fabric open with a loud
r-r-r-r-rip
. He pulled the torn bag down around my cheeks, but it remained tied over my mouth by the gag they had placed over it. Above me, the midnight sky was filled with a lustrous array of stars, so big and so bright that they looked like great celestial luminarias placed along the sky paths of the spirits for their journeys in celebration of Christmas. Ahead of me, upslope, stood the high wall of the Pueblo Peña ruin. To my left, no more than a few yards away, stood the smashed gates in the wall of the San Pedro de Arbués Indian School, the shadow of the bell tower rising above it in dark relief against the starlit heavens. I had already known where I was before he removed the bag from my eyes. The groaning sound made by the bell as it strained against its rope restraints had told me I was at the place of sorrow.