Snake Dreams Page 3

  Right on schedule, the little yellow bus brought Sarah Frank home from school. As twilight mists began to swirl in the canyon, our rotating planet produced the grand illusion of a sun sinking below the westerly horizon. As the bloodred sphere was performing the vanishing act, Daisy Perika and her youthful friend sat down to a hearty supper of flour tortillas and lamb stew.

  Life was good. And about to get better.

  Sarah volunteered to wash and dry the dishes.

  After retiring to the parlor rocking chair, Daisy was warming her knees by a piñon fire that crackled happily upon the hearth. Her eyes appeared to be closed.

  Did the tired woman doze?

  Or was she mulling over this morning’s confrontation with the pitukupf?

  Perhaps the aged soul mused about bygone days repainted in rainbow hues by that sly artist Nostalgia, whose name sounds suspiciously like a dysfunction of the frontal lobe.

  None of the above. Our subject neither dozed nor mulled, nor mused.

  She fretted.

  Out of the corner of her shifty left eye, Daisy watched a spotted cat that seemed to be deep in sleep—and wished she could figure out some way of getting Mr. Zig-Zag’s tail under the rocker. A mean-spirited old woman? We hesitate to judge the senior citizen, but let us take a poll of three persons who know her.

  Charlie Moon, who is a generous soul, prefers to think of his aunt as feisty.

  Sarah Frank, who was not in the parlor at this moment, would be horrified to know of Daisy’s dark obsession to rock on the tails of innocent cats. But she is devoted to the grumpy old woman, and Love is blind to minor faults.

  Mr. Zig-Zag, who watched his nemesis from the corner of his ever-vigilant right eye, views Daisy as a worthy opponent. Also an indispensable benefactor who, twice a day, pours cold milk into his saucer.

  And so there it is. The vote is inconclusive.

  But this modest exercise in democracy does serve to introduce us to Sarah Frank, the young lady who holds legal title to that small piece of livestock known as Mr. Zig-Zag. For quite some time now, the orphaned girl has been Daisy’s companion and helper. Though Sarah is grateful for every blessing, including food, clothing, a roof over her head, and a bed to sleep and dream in, it is tough being a teenager.

  Her Youthful Angst

  Sarah Gazed at her image in the bathroom mirror. As was her daily habit, she appraised the oval, big-eyed face, black hair that stubbornly refused to curl, a skinny frame that seemed to be all elbows and knees. A pearly bead of salty water appeared in the corner of each eye. I’m so plain.

  Do not be sorry for the little lady. She is far from plain; indeed, she loiters on the very threshold of pretty. And whatever the difficulty, Sarah is no quitter. She is determined to be attractive for a certain Someone. Well, of course the adolescent girl is in love. Passionately. With whom?

  Charlie Moon, that’s whom—a man old enough to be her father. Add to this drawback the well-known fact that the lean, seven-foot-tall Ute already has a grown-up, drop-dead-gorgeous sweetheart whom he intends to wed.

  But never underestimate a member of the so-called gentler sex, particularly when she is about to blossom into young womanhood and knows what (who) she wants, has set her mind to have it (him), and will fight tooth and claw with whoever (and whatever) might stand in her way. And Sarah will never give up. Never-never-never!

  Night

  All three residents of the snug dwelling near the canyon’s wide mouth slept peacefully. Those envious insomniacs among us may ask what their secret was. The reasons for their sweet repose were as varied as the characters themselves.

  Sleep comes easily to a cat with a full belly.

  As Sarah Frank said her Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, she had cast her cares upon Him who cares for her.

  Daisy Perika was capable of fretting for hours on end about the current vexation, and the old backslider had not offered up even a perfunctory prayer. So why did she drift off to enjoy pleasant dreams? Put it down to not being concerned about the dwarf’s prediction of a visit from Chiquita Yazzi, who was a quite ordinary person. Had the tribal elder had the least inkling of what she would encounter tomorrow in Cañón del Espíritu, she would not have gotten any sleep. Not a wink.

  Five

  The Time Has Come (To Speak of Many Things)

  Such a picture of contrasts they make.

  The aged woman in the dark blue dress and black woolen shawl, hobbling along ever so slowly, pausing now and then to lean against her oak staff and squint at a noonday sun that seems to have stalled over Three Sisters Mesa.

  The slender, full-to-the-brim-with-energy teenager in faded jeans and a red blouse, darting this way and that off the deer path to ooh! and ahh! at a pale pink butterfly fluttering by or admire yellow-and-purple wildflower bouquets that a kindly Someone has strewn across the broad, sandy floor of Cañón del Espíritu.

  AFTER A painful eternity for Daisy Perika and in practically no time at all for Sarah Frank, they approached the particular (and most peculiar) destination the tribal elder had in mind when she had planned this trek into the cool, quiet depths of Spirit Canyon. The shaman stopped near a ponderosa that had been toppled by March winds ripping down the chasm between Three Sisters and Dog Leg Mesa. This venerable tree, like the scruffy raven perched a few paces away on a branch jutting from its surviving sister, was one of her old friends—and she viewed its untimely death as a dark omen. The weary woman addressed the fallen comrade: “Before very long, I’ll be here in the canyon with you. We’ll sleep together, you and me.”

  As the girl turned to see whom her elderly companion was talking to, the raven voiced a raucous squawk. Daisy tapped her walking stick on the horizontal trunk and spoke to the Ute-Papago orphan. “I’ll sit there for a while.”

  This was easier said than done, but with the girl’s assistance Daisy managed to make herself moderately comfortable on a pink-barked spot between a pair of jutting branches.

  Sarah seated herself on a sandstone outcropping in front of the woman she called Aunt Daisy. The girl was aware that the pitukupf’s home was only a few yards behind her, and noticed that the Ute elder was staring intently at the badger hole.

  Daisy was deliberating. There’s no smoke coming out. And I don’t smell the little stinker. Maybe the aggravating neighbor was not home today. I bet it’ll be a long time before he’ll try to pull another fast one on me. She allowed her gaze to drift up the talus slope, focused on a spot high on the mesa wall where the sandstone shelf protruded like an impudent tongue. Someday, I guess he will pass away. It occurred to her that someone should bury the little man. But it won’t be me. I’ll be gone a long time before he bites the dust, and there’ll be nobody left to do the job. Unless . . . She eyed the Ute-Papago girl, stated the obvious: “I’m getting old.”

  Sarah put on a solemn expression, nodded.

  “I probably won’t live through another winter.” Seeing a protest rise in the girl’s throat, Daisy raised a finger to shush her. “And after I’m gone there’ll be things around here to look after. So I need to pass on some of what I know.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, the girl waited.

  The vexed woman commenced to explain her dilemma. “Some years ago, I figured Charlie Moon would have himself a nice Ute wife and some children by now, and that I’d have a sweet little niece I could teach.” She scowled. “But Charlie hasn’t got the job done and hardly any of the young people in the tribe are interested in the old ways.” And the few who are would rather talk to a sun-dance chief or a story-keeper than the likes of me. She glared at the orphan. “You’re only half Ute.” A wistful shake of the gray head. “But you’re all I got, so I guess you’ll have to do.”

  At the same instant, Sarah felt a little hurt-feelings lump in her throat and a tickle in her funny bone—poor thing didn’t know whether to burst into tears or snicker. Very sensibly, she cleared her throat of the impediment and attempted to suppress the giggle by imagining a bloodred centipede creeping in
to my bed tonight, slithering along my neck, up my chin, across my mouth, and into my nose. Not scary enough. Sarah could see the invader, and it was a cute cartoon centipede—wearing a black derby and fifty pairs of tiny yellow shoes. She could feel the smile pulling at her lips. It’ll bite me and the poison will make my nose swell up big as a yellow squash and I’ll have to breathe through my mouth for the rest of my life and little children will be afraid of me and I’ll have to go around with a pillowcase over my head. That did it. Thus composed, she said, “Thank you, Aunt Daisy.”

  The old woman’s indifferent nod communicated the fact that this undeserving recipient of her kindness was welcome. Sort of. With no further ado, the tribal elder pulled in a deep breath, got right to Lesson Number One, which had to do with how to put together your very own home pharmacy from resources that sprouted from the earth. During the next few hours, the old woman expounded upon such subjects as:

  How to prepare a tincture of a plant that she identified as yellow smoke, which (taken in very small doses!) was useful in treating nervousness, twitching, and facial tics. It was not to be used by a woman who was pregnant or taking any of those expensive matukach prescription medications for a nervous/twitching/facial-tic condition.

  She also described various ways to use the bark of the coffeeberry shrub. Depending on details of the preparation, you could (so Daisy claimed) end up with an effective laxative or a medication for reducing pain in swollen joints. Or maybe it was for treating diarrhea and reducing swelling in painful joints. Either way, it was good stuff and patients would pay twenty dollars an ounce for the medication.

  She told the youth how to prepare Mormon tea for treating urinary-tract problems and how to use larkspur for killing body lice; she even revealed her secret recipe for using Indian mint and “gray fuzzy-leaf” to make a dandy stomach tonic. In every instance, the self-made pharmacist provided warnings about the potential dangers of these homemade medications. In the hands of amateurs, such preparations could be dangerous—even lethal. A medicine dispenser had to know exactly what she was doing, otherwise her patients might not live long enough to pay the fee.

  Sarah listened in rapt silence, wondering how much of this lore she would remember next week. But the little scholar knew what to do. Soon as we get home, I’ll write this stuff all down, then I’ll get Aunt Daisy to check it and make sure I’ve got it right.

  When a cool late-afternoon breeze drifted down the canyon, the educator announced that today’s lesson was over. But on the way home, as the shadows began to grow longer and the thin little girl grew hungrier, the old woman paused occasionally to point her walking stick at a plant that Sarah should harvest. From one, a few leaves would suffice, while from another the blossom and roots were required. At a spot near the stream where the ground was soggy, Daisy directed the youth to dig a marsh marigold up by the roots.

  Sarah stared at the pretty little plant in the black mud. Her jeans were clean and the flower appeared to be perfectly satisfied where it was. “Dig it up with what?”

  Daisy shook her head, snapped, “With a stick!” Does she think I’ve got a shovel in my pocket?

  The teenager followed the elder’s order without any further hint of protest, but learning the pharmacy trade was hard, dirty work.

  As Sarah dug in the mud, Daisy seemed to be keeping a sharp eye on her pupil, but she was paying scant attention to the girl’s labors. The Ute elder was distracted. Ever since they had left the vicinity of the badger hole, their footsteps had been dogged by someone that Sarah had not noticed. No, not the dwarf—but rather that person whose visit the peculiar little prognosticator had predicted. Though Daisy had caught only a glimpse of the individual who stalked them, she had no doubt that it was Chiquita Yazzi—and that she was dead. Daisy had not been fond of the pesky woman when she was alive, and doubted that death had done much to improve her.

  Ever since the tag-along game had begun, the shaman had pretended to be unaware of the spirit’s presence. From long experience with displaced souls, she suspected that Chiquita would be one of those persistent ones that cling like cockleburs on your stocking. Trouble, trouble—that’s what dead folks are—nothing but aggravation! Daisy ground the few molars she had left. I hope Chiquita don’t follow us home. I’d as soon have a family of rabid pack rats set up camp under my house.

  It is gratifying to report that during the approaching night, Daisy Perika would be plagued neither by pesky haunts nor by hydrophobic rodents. But who knows what trouble the morrow will bring? Or the day after that.

  Six

  Mr. Moon Dreams

  According to those erudites who hold Ph.Ds in sleepology, some 92 percent of our dreams occur within the span of only a few seconds—this despite the fact that from the dreamer’s point of view, the night-vision drags on for ever so long. As the Indian cowboy rode his particular nightmare through the dark labyrinth of his subconscious, he lurched and grunted and scowled and groaned—and aged about fifty years. But, happily, only within the confines of his hallucination.

  While fascinating, the details of his dream shall be omitted. The gist of the experience was that Mr. Moon was viewing his future self, who was passing his twilight years on the Columbine. With every Moon of Dead Leaves Falling, the skin on his face hung more loosely, the eye sockets became more hollow, the wrinkles deeper, the jet-black hair faded to gray, then finally to snowy white. All the while, the energetic gait slowed, and all too soon, Scott Parris gave him a walking cane for Christmas. Oh, unhappy holiday! Then came those twilight days when Moon scuffed around the headquarters leaning on a shiny titanium walker with greenish tennis balls on the bottoms of the aluminum shafts.

  It gets worse.

  With each winter, Charlie Moon was losing his appetite. An inflamed gall bladder had made it necessary to remove fatty foods and zingy spices from his menu. What did this leave? Don’t ask. Oh, very well—but it is depressing. Instead of three square meals a day and snacks in between, he was spooning mashed-up yellowish goop past his lips. It looked suspiciously like boiled summer squash with not a hint of salt. Tasted like it, too.

  And having no teeth to speak of, he gummed the stuff.

  It gets even worser.

  There was no spouse in the house. Charlie Moon was alone.

  No wonder the young man awakened in a cold sweat, sat straight up in bed, the first thought in his head: I’ve got to have me a wife. And the sooner the better.

  But not just any wife would do.

  Moon was a top hand, and even your run-of-the-mill cowboy knows that hitching up with the right companion for life is every bit as important as selecting a suitable quarter horse or pickup truck. Whether it be hoofed mount or wheeled vehicle or long-lashed mate, a man needs one that will stay with him over the long haul.

  Whom to wed was not the issue for our hopeful bridegroom—he’d had his eye on the top-grade lady for quite some time now. For so long, as a matter of fact, that Lila Mae McTeague had begun to wonder whether the only man in her life was all that interested in matrimony.

  He Makes Up His Mind

  But not before two cups of black coffee. A sensible man does not make a firm, life-changing decision immediately after getting up from a bad night’s sleep, especially one that has ended with an unsettling dream. What he needs is a double dose of caffeine to get the brain circuits properly electrified, the cerebellum engine hitting on all eight cylinders. But the mind cannot run without glucose fuel, which energy he acquired by stirring heaping tablespoons of honey into his coffee. Not long after downing the last sweet sip of the hot, syrupy brew, he knew what he had to do—and did it. Which required picking up the kitchen phone, placing a call to a snug little bungalow in Thousand Oaks, California. I’m gonna make this short and to the point.

  When a man like this gets his steam up, a lady is likely to get bowled over, swept right off her feet, or whatever metaphor that will get the job done. Look out, Lila Mae McTeague!

  Sweet Thing answered on the fifth ri
ng with a long, languorous yawn, to which she appended a “Hello, Charlie.”

  He helloed her right back. But it was time to hammer those shiny little brass tacks. Moon banged his fist on the kitchen table. “Lila Mae . . .”

  The man who had stared Death in the face a dozen times . . . choked. Literally. Like a diner with a fish bone in his throat.

  “Charlie—is something wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Um . . . yeah.”

  This made her head ache. “Something’s wrong—or you’re okay?” Like so many of her colleagues, the FBI employee was one of those analytical types.

  The source of her headache nodded. “Right.”

  The lady rolled her pretty eyes. Pretty violet eyes. No wonder the man was smitten. “It is rather early to be calling.”

  Early? That put some wind back in his sails. “It’s an hour later here on the Columbine.”

  “I am aware of the differential between Pacific and Mountain time.”

  “Look, Lila Mae, we’ve got to talk . . . uh . . . what I mean to say is—the thing is . . .” His face seemed to be on fire. “You know what I mean.”

  And the lady did. She leaned back on her pillow, blinked the big violets. “You woke me up at dawn to discuss our future?”

  “Well . . . yeah.” He jutted the chin. “Yes, I did.”

  “That is very sweet of you.”

  Look. See Charlie Moon grin. “It is?”

  “Certainly. But the subject is too important to discuss on the telephone.”

  “No problem.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ll make a dash over to the Springs, catch a flight, be in Los Angeles by noon.”

  “That would be delightful, except that I will not be here to meet you. In about three hours I’m off to Washington for a meeting this evening in the Hoover Building with the Homeland Security Liaison Team. I won’t return until next week at the earliest, and—”