alcala0001
10-16-2010, 02:16 AM
My finger traces the grooves and lines in the cold stainless steel barrel of my snub-nosed revolver as I drive past the rusted, gunshot sign that announces the San Carlos Navajo Reservation. The heat is tolerable up here in the high desert. The rolling hills and mountains are dotted with mesquite, cactus and scrub bushes, and it's quite beautiful here. My truck knows the way as I take in the majesty of it. Clear, deep-blue desert skies as far as the eye can see in every direction, wispy white clouds in the distance. I round a bend in the road and an overgrown mesquite tree with overhanging limbs scrapes thin, spiked branches as it reaches out onto the road, clawing at the sleeve of my shirt as I ease by, my elbow resting outside the open window. I smell smoke; the musky spiced odor of mesquite, mixed with the sweetness of juniper. Behind the clawing wayward mesquite, a hundred yards back, is an old double-wide trailer. Several junked cars in various stages of decay litter the property as four small children run and play, three mutts bouncing and wagging behind them. An old woman in long dress, her hair up in a bun, is outside stoking a fire. An old bent man in a straw cowboy hat and worn denim and boots sits in a wooden chair. The old man half-turns and raises an arm in salute. I raise my hand in acknowledgement as I drive past. My beat-up old truck really fits in here, I think, amused at the notion of me blending into such a foreign world. I continue up the road, my vehicle taking me where I need to go as I enjoy the scenery and take it all in.
I pass a young teenage girl on horseback dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt, her hair sporting a few streaks of pink and blue. She has a pretty Navajo face; round and mocha colored, eyes of the deepest brown with a hint of sadness. I lift my hand in salute and she eyes me curiously as she notes my white skin and blue eyes. As she disappears into twilight and dust, I pass a few scattered houses along the way. They all seem dilapidated and run-down, as if their owners had no sense of pride. This is a common mistake for those who do not know them, or your average white person passing through. They are a fiercly proud people who view houses only as places to keep the rain off and sleep on cold nights. To them it does not matter because they see the big picture - nothing matters but living a simple life with those you love and who love you. They have it all figured out. That's why I'm here. Shadows stretch and fade into dark purple bruises across the dry landscape and the mountains and hills brighten to orange and pink as the sun retreats to night's advances. I fork left onto a barely visible road, marked only with the colored glass of a thousand beer bottles. I climb up the trail, the truck protesting as I shift into low gear and crawl, gravel and glass crunching under my tires. As dark magenta twilight fades to purple and then night, I navigate the back trails, remembering it as if it was yesterday. My headlights spill out into the desert as I navigate overgrown trails, following my memory. Jackrabbits and quail and even a family of javelina pigs scurry to get out of my way. In my dusty yellow beams I can see greenery peeking over the next hill. That's it. I grab my gun and get out, slamming the door behind me. I stand there a moment, leaning on the door of my truck. There is a stillness that can't be described, here in the high Arizona desert. It's as if all the animals for miles around have melted into the earth. Nothing can be heard but a cool night breeze through the trees. A canopy of stars twinkles above me, casting a cold blue light on the landscape. It has been years since I have seen the stars like this. I smell water and greenery. I head over the rise and see a stand of cottonwood trees below, waxy leaves reflecting the pale starlight as they rustle in a breeze. I make my way down, seeing bottles and litter near the spring. It's pretty much as I remember it, but there are a few more trees, the big one we carved our name on was gone, replaced by others. I find a boulder near the water and I sit, head in my hand and gun across my knee.
It was the spring of 1973 when I first came here with my cousin Clayton. He had gotten himself involved with a Navajo girl named Bernice and wanted to take me around. I was staying with him at the time, having hitched a ride from Los Angeles. We were nineteen and wild. Clayton was never one for convention and we did have the best times when we were together, so when he called me up telling me to come to some Arizona Indian reservation I just went with it. There were more white people around then, mostly hippies escaping from reality. I was immediately aware of how different life was here. There was always a warm welcome but there was also the sense that you were just a tourist. You could stay your whole life and if you weren't Navajo, you were just visiting. I fell in love with the peaceful desert, the rolling mountains and the culture. 'The culture' for us at the time was smoking copious amounts of marijuana and drinking gallons of beer out in the desert, around a camp fire. I didn't hit it off with any of the Navajo girls, but it wasn't for lack of trying. I was just awkward at the time. Watching Clayton and Bernice together evoked a surprising feeling of jealousy. Not of them, but what they had. I became the un-necessary appendage. The proverbial fifth wheel. Then one night Clayton brought a rifle. It was a .22 bolt action, more of a small game rifle. We were well into the second case of beer when he pulled it from the bed of his pickup. As he fumbled with the bolt, trying to load it, there was a rustling sound. A big rustling. A coyote emerged from the darkness to stand on the edge of the fire. It was the most regal creature I had ever seen. I had seen plenty of dogs, but this was no dog. It was slender, with a long triangle-shaped head and yellow-gold almond shaped eyes. The thick bushy tail and the mottling on the back would blend perfectly into the desert. We were frozen in it's gaze. Then Clayton brought the rifle up and swung it toward the coyote. I reached out and knocked the barrel downward, sending his shot into the dirt and spilling my beer in the process. The coyote turned and dashed into the darkness. Clayton didn't speak to me for the rest of the night.
A few nights later I finally had some luck with the ladies. Her name was Nizhoni and she was a vision. Her skin was a dusky brown and her hair was a long silky blue-black. She was petite but curvy, filling out her dress nicely. The thing that stood out most though, was her eyes. They were a beautiful gold color and they shone with a fierceness that was both intimidating and intoxicating. I was immediately reminded of the coyote. I should have known. We were all sitting around the general store when she first walked up, no - strode up. Her walk was like her attitude - purposeful and direct to the point. She came up under the only street light, her thin dress billowing around her knees, hugging her as she came right toward me. I can remember what happened after she came, but not immediately before. It was like that moment didn't exist until she appeared. Clayton and Bernice were kissing, leaning on the grill of his truck and I had my back to the creosote-stained wood lamp post. She ignored them and came straight to me, eyes locked, with purpose. She stopped just short and introduced herself, then asked my name. Her accent was thick and clipped, melodic and soft-spoken. Nizhoni spoke a few words to Bernice in Navajo, which ilicited a laugh from her. After a few minutes of her looking at me with those penetrating golden eyes we decided to head off into the desert to drink some beer, Nizhoni and I rode in the pickup bed. No sooner than the truck started, she was upon me. I had never been with a woman so forward and in control. By the time we had arrived at the watering hole my pants were half-way down and her dress was hiked up. Only the blankets in the back kept us decent. She didn't drink with us, but she sat next to me. She felt so warm against me as she nestled her head into my chest. Clayton and Bernice grabbed an armload of blankets and headed for the trees. Nizhoni had her way with me as soon as they left.
Nizhoni met us every night, and by the fifth night I was head over heels for her. It wasn't just physical. I'm a middle-aged man now and teenage lust does not leave a lasting impression like that, only fond memories. The wound she left on my heart is still fresh. Every night we would escape to the desert in Clayton's truck and Nizhoni and I would express our love in physical carnal pleasure. Her love-making was purposeful and intense, primal even. She was insatiable, and as tired and beaten as I was by our passionate couplings, I loved every moment of it. She never spoke of home, her past or her hopes for the future. She lived in the moment and I was caught up in her spell. Then one night Bernice took us home. She lived with her grandmother and mother, her father and grandfather had passed away. I was expecting a fight to erupt over us white boys coming for dinner, but once again I was surprised by the hospitality. Upon seeing Nizhoni her grandmother let out a cry and rushed over to her, chattering a mile a minute. She grabbed Nizhoni's cheeks delicately in her hands and wept. I asked Bernice what that was all about, but she only stared at her hysterical grandmother. We all did. Grandmother soon calmed down and it was as if nothing had ever happened; it was as if her favorite grandchild had come to visit and she doted on her and went out of her way to see to her comfort. The night dragged on and Grandmother entertained us with stories and fed us fry bread and beans. Grandmother insisted that we visit her every night and bring Nizhoni with us. Our routine became this: meet at the general store and buy beer, hang out with Grandmother until it started getting late, head to the desert and drink beer and screw. It worked for us.
Then Nizhoni left. On four legs. We were down at the watering hole, drinking and kissing as usual. She was quiet and seemed distant. After Clayton and Bernice went off to their secret spot she made love to me one last time. Instead of laying with me afterward as she had been doing for weeks, she stood up and turned to me, her golden eyes reflecting in the moonlight, and without a word she melted into a coyote. She dashed to the rise, to where I sit now, and with one last look back she bounded into the night, howling and crying into the darkness. I was not surprised. I was only surprised by my lack of surprise. I think that at that moment I only had enough room in my soul for sorrow. I was a wreck for weeks after. I had asked up one end of the reservation and down the other, but nobody had ever heard of Nizhoni, this mystery Navajo with golden yellow eyes. Clayton and Bernice split up shortly thereafter and Clayton headed out to New Mexico with some hippie chick he met. He offered to take me with him, but I refused. Bernice's grandmother said I could stay with them as long as I needed to, and so I stayed for a few weeks - hoping for one last night with Nizhoni. A few weeks turned into months and months turned into two years. Grandmother finally came to me one night as I sit outside the house, staring into the flames of a mesquite fire. She told me that Nizhoni was not really a woman, she was more and less. She had seen something in me and had chosen me as her mate, but I could not come with her. Skinwalker - that's what Grandmother had called her. Grandmother explained that Skinwalkers had not been seen in many generations, and that Nizhoni had come to me for a reason - what reason, we may never know. Skinwalkers supposedly walked the boundry of the spirit world and this world, taking an animal form at will. I was in love with a Skinwalker. I still am.
After that long, insightful talk with Grandmother I left here and have never been back until now. I eventually found a girl, got married and had two children. I went through the motions of a normal life, but it was never complete. Nizhoni was the only woman for me and I knew this in my heart. So here I am: middle-aged, long-since divorced and with two strangers for a son and daughter, sitting here in the spot where I found love so many years ago. I reflect on my life and search my feelings, knowing that what I'm about to do can't be undone. There is no doubt in my mind. My life ended in 1973. I click the hammer back and heft the gun, putting it under my chin. I'm tired and I just want to rest. Maybe if she's walking between worlds I might catch a glimpse of her. I squeeze the trigger, feeling the spring resist under my finger as a coyote yelps in the distant night, breaking the silence of the Arizona high desert. I lower the gun and weep.
Thanks for reading! This is an impromptu piece that was hastily thrown together. Apologies if there are typos or mistakes. I will edit these as soon as I see them. For now I'm just putting it out there.
I pass a young teenage girl on horseback dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt, her hair sporting a few streaks of pink and blue. She has a pretty Navajo face; round and mocha colored, eyes of the deepest brown with a hint of sadness. I lift my hand in salute and she eyes me curiously as she notes my white skin and blue eyes. As she disappears into twilight and dust, I pass a few scattered houses along the way. They all seem dilapidated and run-down, as if their owners had no sense of pride. This is a common mistake for those who do not know them, or your average white person passing through. They are a fiercly proud people who view houses only as places to keep the rain off and sleep on cold nights. To them it does not matter because they see the big picture - nothing matters but living a simple life with those you love and who love you. They have it all figured out. That's why I'm here. Shadows stretch and fade into dark purple bruises across the dry landscape and the mountains and hills brighten to orange and pink as the sun retreats to night's advances. I fork left onto a barely visible road, marked only with the colored glass of a thousand beer bottles. I climb up the trail, the truck protesting as I shift into low gear and crawl, gravel and glass crunching under my tires. As dark magenta twilight fades to purple and then night, I navigate the back trails, remembering it as if it was yesterday. My headlights spill out into the desert as I navigate overgrown trails, following my memory. Jackrabbits and quail and even a family of javelina pigs scurry to get out of my way. In my dusty yellow beams I can see greenery peeking over the next hill. That's it. I grab my gun and get out, slamming the door behind me. I stand there a moment, leaning on the door of my truck. There is a stillness that can't be described, here in the high Arizona desert. It's as if all the animals for miles around have melted into the earth. Nothing can be heard but a cool night breeze through the trees. A canopy of stars twinkles above me, casting a cold blue light on the landscape. It has been years since I have seen the stars like this. I smell water and greenery. I head over the rise and see a stand of cottonwood trees below, waxy leaves reflecting the pale starlight as they rustle in a breeze. I make my way down, seeing bottles and litter near the spring. It's pretty much as I remember it, but there are a few more trees, the big one we carved our name on was gone, replaced by others. I find a boulder near the water and I sit, head in my hand and gun across my knee.
It was the spring of 1973 when I first came here with my cousin Clayton. He had gotten himself involved with a Navajo girl named Bernice and wanted to take me around. I was staying with him at the time, having hitched a ride from Los Angeles. We were nineteen and wild. Clayton was never one for convention and we did have the best times when we were together, so when he called me up telling me to come to some Arizona Indian reservation I just went with it. There were more white people around then, mostly hippies escaping from reality. I was immediately aware of how different life was here. There was always a warm welcome but there was also the sense that you were just a tourist. You could stay your whole life and if you weren't Navajo, you were just visiting. I fell in love with the peaceful desert, the rolling mountains and the culture. 'The culture' for us at the time was smoking copious amounts of marijuana and drinking gallons of beer out in the desert, around a camp fire. I didn't hit it off with any of the Navajo girls, but it wasn't for lack of trying. I was just awkward at the time. Watching Clayton and Bernice together evoked a surprising feeling of jealousy. Not of them, but what they had. I became the un-necessary appendage. The proverbial fifth wheel. Then one night Clayton brought a rifle. It was a .22 bolt action, more of a small game rifle. We were well into the second case of beer when he pulled it from the bed of his pickup. As he fumbled with the bolt, trying to load it, there was a rustling sound. A big rustling. A coyote emerged from the darkness to stand on the edge of the fire. It was the most regal creature I had ever seen. I had seen plenty of dogs, but this was no dog. It was slender, with a long triangle-shaped head and yellow-gold almond shaped eyes. The thick bushy tail and the mottling on the back would blend perfectly into the desert. We were frozen in it's gaze. Then Clayton brought the rifle up and swung it toward the coyote. I reached out and knocked the barrel downward, sending his shot into the dirt and spilling my beer in the process. The coyote turned and dashed into the darkness. Clayton didn't speak to me for the rest of the night.
A few nights later I finally had some luck with the ladies. Her name was Nizhoni and she was a vision. Her skin was a dusky brown and her hair was a long silky blue-black. She was petite but curvy, filling out her dress nicely. The thing that stood out most though, was her eyes. They were a beautiful gold color and they shone with a fierceness that was both intimidating and intoxicating. I was immediately reminded of the coyote. I should have known. We were all sitting around the general store when she first walked up, no - strode up. Her walk was like her attitude - purposeful and direct to the point. She came up under the only street light, her thin dress billowing around her knees, hugging her as she came right toward me. I can remember what happened after she came, but not immediately before. It was like that moment didn't exist until she appeared. Clayton and Bernice were kissing, leaning on the grill of his truck and I had my back to the creosote-stained wood lamp post. She ignored them and came straight to me, eyes locked, with purpose. She stopped just short and introduced herself, then asked my name. Her accent was thick and clipped, melodic and soft-spoken. Nizhoni spoke a few words to Bernice in Navajo, which ilicited a laugh from her. After a few minutes of her looking at me with those penetrating golden eyes we decided to head off into the desert to drink some beer, Nizhoni and I rode in the pickup bed. No sooner than the truck started, she was upon me. I had never been with a woman so forward and in control. By the time we had arrived at the watering hole my pants were half-way down and her dress was hiked up. Only the blankets in the back kept us decent. She didn't drink with us, but she sat next to me. She felt so warm against me as she nestled her head into my chest. Clayton and Bernice grabbed an armload of blankets and headed for the trees. Nizhoni had her way with me as soon as they left.
Nizhoni met us every night, and by the fifth night I was head over heels for her. It wasn't just physical. I'm a middle-aged man now and teenage lust does not leave a lasting impression like that, only fond memories. The wound she left on my heart is still fresh. Every night we would escape to the desert in Clayton's truck and Nizhoni and I would express our love in physical carnal pleasure. Her love-making was purposeful and intense, primal even. She was insatiable, and as tired and beaten as I was by our passionate couplings, I loved every moment of it. She never spoke of home, her past or her hopes for the future. She lived in the moment and I was caught up in her spell. Then one night Bernice took us home. She lived with her grandmother and mother, her father and grandfather had passed away. I was expecting a fight to erupt over us white boys coming for dinner, but once again I was surprised by the hospitality. Upon seeing Nizhoni her grandmother let out a cry and rushed over to her, chattering a mile a minute. She grabbed Nizhoni's cheeks delicately in her hands and wept. I asked Bernice what that was all about, but she only stared at her hysterical grandmother. We all did. Grandmother soon calmed down and it was as if nothing had ever happened; it was as if her favorite grandchild had come to visit and she doted on her and went out of her way to see to her comfort. The night dragged on and Grandmother entertained us with stories and fed us fry bread and beans. Grandmother insisted that we visit her every night and bring Nizhoni with us. Our routine became this: meet at the general store and buy beer, hang out with Grandmother until it started getting late, head to the desert and drink beer and screw. It worked for us.
Then Nizhoni left. On four legs. We were down at the watering hole, drinking and kissing as usual. She was quiet and seemed distant. After Clayton and Bernice went off to their secret spot she made love to me one last time. Instead of laying with me afterward as she had been doing for weeks, she stood up and turned to me, her golden eyes reflecting in the moonlight, and without a word she melted into a coyote. She dashed to the rise, to where I sit now, and with one last look back she bounded into the night, howling and crying into the darkness. I was not surprised. I was only surprised by my lack of surprise. I think that at that moment I only had enough room in my soul for sorrow. I was a wreck for weeks after. I had asked up one end of the reservation and down the other, but nobody had ever heard of Nizhoni, this mystery Navajo with golden yellow eyes. Clayton and Bernice split up shortly thereafter and Clayton headed out to New Mexico with some hippie chick he met. He offered to take me with him, but I refused. Bernice's grandmother said I could stay with them as long as I needed to, and so I stayed for a few weeks - hoping for one last night with Nizhoni. A few weeks turned into months and months turned into two years. Grandmother finally came to me one night as I sit outside the house, staring into the flames of a mesquite fire. She told me that Nizhoni was not really a woman, she was more and less. She had seen something in me and had chosen me as her mate, but I could not come with her. Skinwalker - that's what Grandmother had called her. Grandmother explained that Skinwalkers had not been seen in many generations, and that Nizhoni had come to me for a reason - what reason, we may never know. Skinwalkers supposedly walked the boundry of the spirit world and this world, taking an animal form at will. I was in love with a Skinwalker. I still am.
After that long, insightful talk with Grandmother I left here and have never been back until now. I eventually found a girl, got married and had two children. I went through the motions of a normal life, but it was never complete. Nizhoni was the only woman for me and I knew this in my heart. So here I am: middle-aged, long-since divorced and with two strangers for a son and daughter, sitting here in the spot where I found love so many years ago. I reflect on my life and search my feelings, knowing that what I'm about to do can't be undone. There is no doubt in my mind. My life ended in 1973. I click the hammer back and heft the gun, putting it under my chin. I'm tired and I just want to rest. Maybe if she's walking between worlds I might catch a glimpse of her. I squeeze the trigger, feeling the spring resist under my finger as a coyote yelps in the distant night, breaking the silence of the Arizona high desert. I lower the gun and weep.
Thanks for reading! This is an impromptu piece that was hastily thrown together. Apologies if there are typos or mistakes. I will edit these as soon as I see them. For now I'm just putting it out there.