Touches of Wonder and Terror. James C. Glass
Читать онлайн книгу.
The canyon laid barren, dead beneath him. Loneliness descended like a heavy cloud, urging him to turn away from this evil place. But it was a place of cleansing, he told himself, a place for turning inwards, asking questions, exploring goals and motivations. A place for Ihamblecya.
He climbed to a sandstone shelf near the canyon rim, scrambled up onto it and removed his pack. There was a commanding view of the canyon towards the west, and what breeze there was he would feel here. John removed his shirt and headband; let his black hair spill over his shoulders. He took a long pull from the water bottle, stowed it carefully in his pack and turned, sitting cross-legged to face the west rim of the canyon. Behind him, from somewhere out on the high, grassy plateau, there was a coughing sound. John smiled, raised his arms and closed his eyes to a descending sun, knowing he was not alone. As the heat seared his flesh, he began to pray.
It was ritual, prayers taught to him by mother and grandfather. He repeated them over and over until his mind drifted along with the words, observing but not hearing, present but somehow detached from the incantations. The words began to lose meaning as his mind drifted away, wandering far from the canyon heat, back to the dusty roads and grasslands of the reservation, a place of belonging far removed from the college campus he had despised and fled.
John was filled with a sense of regret, of failure. He’d only stayed a month, leaving before first exams. Of what use to his people would he be as an engineer? They didn’t need computers or high technology; simple work and dignity had been enough for thousands of years. A corner of his mind nagged at him. Of what use are you to your people just sitting here on a rock and talking to the wind and snakes and trees of stone? Why are you really here? John felt hot sweat running into his eyes and mouth, opened the water bottle and took another long drink from it. “Ptesanwin, wise one, please speak to me. Show me the way I must follow.”
He watched a blood-red sun descend beyond the western rim of the canyon, and ate a few of the Fig Newtons to silence his noisy stomach. A night breeze chilled him, but he did not put on his shirt and shivered on the ledge until the breeze subsided. His tongue felt swollen again, and he drank more water, holding it in his mouth for a long time before swallowing.
Behind him on the grassy slopes near the canyon, a coyote family emerged for the night’s hunting, greeted each other with a symphony of yelps and howls that filled him with a sense of oneness with all life. Soon after, he heard the scratching of toe-nails on rock, saw dark shapes moving among the petrified logs and stumps below him, then a yip and low growl as one of the furtive creatures sensed his presence. “Miyacapi, little four-legged ones, tell Ptesanwin I am here.” He prayed until a full moon had crossed the star-filled sky, and as the coyotes returned to their dens he succumbed to the exhaustion of unanswered prayers and fell into a dreamless sleep.
By the evening of the following day he had used up all his food and water, and he was consumed by doubt. His body was stiff and aching; dry lips had cracked open, and when he licked them he tasted blood. His mind seemed a blank. There were no answers, no thoughts, voices or visions. He was not worthy or ready, or Ptesanwin was a myth for ignorant people of the distant past. There was a coughing sound and low growls from the plateau behind him; the buffalo were still there, agitated. It was rutting season. “Ptesanwin, where are you?” he whispered. Even the coyotes avoided him that night, and he fell asleep with tears in his eyes.
He awoke when the sun was high. He was drenched in sweat. His vision was blurred by a white veil before his eyes, and there was a buzzing sound in his ears. His heart was pounding, skin turning cold, instinct screaming within him to find shade. He scrambled from the ledge and over rocks towards the canyon floor. Stepping over a rocky log, he felt a searing pain when something struck his leg. He looked down numbly as the venomous snake struck him again in the same place, and he staggered backwards onto a flat of alkali sand in shock. The snake glared at him a moment, then crawled back under the log. John felt no malice, sensing a purpose in the pain already moving up his leg. Perhaps this was his answer; he would die in this place rather than live in the white man’s world. In a coldly rational way he realized this was likely in his weakened state. But a part of him wanted to live, while the remainder dwelled in self-pity. He limped across an alkali flat and along game trails towards a Juniper-covered escarpment jutting out over a scoria-lined canyon filled with thick underbrush. The escarpment was near an occasionally used horse trail, and shade was there. His death could be comfortable; more than he deserved for an ill-spent life. Ptesanwan would hide her face from him, and smile as he died. This was truth. Tears came. Must it be this way? He pondered the question, and felt numbness creeping into his groin. Please don’t let me die, he thought. There are things I should do—but what are they?
He found a shady hollow beneath two intertwined junipers and crawled into it, dragging his violated leg behind him. Someone had camped here. He found match sticks and a piece of aluminum foil. The vacationers were gone and usually it was only rangers or ranchers who ventured this far into the backcountry. Perhaps they would check the buffalo herd, and come within signaling distance. The numbness was now in his abdomen, and he knew soon he would begin the fight to breathe as paralysis reached into his chest to suffocate him. To sleep was to die. John pushed himself up into a sitting position, back against a juniper, and stared out at the rolling hills and colorful buttes. The country he loved so dearly was killing him. Or was he killing himself? Was there no place for him in the world? Must he be thrown out? He felt sudden anger. I have done nothing wrong, he thought, to which his mind answered, you have done nothing at all.
A red sun touched the western rim of the canyon and shadows lengthened around him as John Natani fought to live, consciously willing his chest to rise and fall, forcing air in and out of parched lungs. He despaired, but then a Wambli came, and he wondered if it had been sent by Ptesanwin to sustain him. He had grown sleepy with the effort of breathing when suddenly the great bird was there, sitting on a tree branch a few feet above his head and staring darkly down at him. At first he’d thought it was a hawk, but then saw it was a young, golden eagle, and his spirits rose. He dared not speak to the bird, for fear it would leave him. Wingflapper, sacred one, carry a message for me. I wish to live. The bird watched him closely for a while, holding John’s attention as he struggled to breathe, then suddenly lifted into the air with a single downward thrust of its wings, and flew majestically away towards the southeast.
Darkness came. John felt tranquility, a resignation to what was happening, a sense of plan, of purpose, and he rode the feeling like a leaf in dry wind, closing his eyes, letting himself fall into a dream-state near consciousness. In his dream he saw small children laughing and kicking at a rubber ball in a field of buffalo grass. He warned them to beware of snakes and they smiled at him, black eyes sparkling mischievously, and then he awoke, gasping for breath. He rubbed his eyes, willing himself to stay awake. Breathing seemed easier now, but he was tired, and so terribly thirsty. His tongue seemed to fill his entire mouth.
Rutting sounds came from the east; he heard them more often now, and once he saw movement at the canyon rim. The coyotes were strangely silent this night, and yet he sensed life nearby, watching him. Even fear could not hold his attention; exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed about the children.
When he opened his eyes he was on his back staring up at a full moon shimmering past gnarled juniper branches. There was a cool breeze, and yet his body was drenched with sweat. The image of playing children lingered in his mind as he hovered on the edge of consciousness, and he felt strangely happy, even though breathing remained an effort. He had been awakened by something: a touch, or a sound. It was there again, along with a rank, wild odor, sharp in his nostrils. He sat up against the tree, wanting to sleep, peering through branches with fluttering eyelids, as though drugged. Beyond the branches, dark shapes moved in the moonlight, down bentonite slopes towards a grass-filled hollow near where he sat. They came in single file, grunting and growling, and the brittle clay crunched loudly beneath sharp hooves. When they reached the grass, some began rolling on their backs, kicking spindly legs with pleasure. John felt the ground tremble beneath him. This is a dream, he thought. He crawled quietly from beneath the tree, and sat cross-legged at the edge of the grass. Ptesanwan, I am here.
The herd seemed oblivious to his presence and continued to graze peacefully. John ignored them, for his eyes were fixed on two enormous bulls descending a clay bluff. Between them a white cow