The Night Visitor, page 1
JAMES D. DOSS
THE
NIGHT
VISITOR
A
SHAMAN
MYSTERY
Dedication
Dedicated to
James L. Smith of Los Alamos
Nancy Jean Smith of Colorado Springs
and to the fond memory of
Rob Newton
Doc Purdy
Harrison York
Cordell Neal
… all of South Carrollton, Kentucky.
Epigraph
The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem …
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die …”
Ecclesiastes
“The shaman usually left orders for the patient to follow. These prescriptions were given to the doctor by his power. They might include painting the face in a certain fashion, praying before sunrise, avoiding certain foods, and, if his powers so directed, giving the patient a new name.”
Anne M. Smith,
Ethnography of the Northern Utes
Contents
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
1 THE END
2 THE SLICKER FROM ARKANSAS
3 GETTING A JOB OF WORK
4 DIGGING UP BONES
5 DISAPPEARING ACT
6 COVER STORY
7 A COLD WALK IN MOONLIGHT
8 THE BANSHEE
9 MAKING THE SALE
10 VISITING THE DWARF
11 THE MOON DOES BLEED
12 THE HOLIDAYS
13 A PACK OF LIES
GRANDMOTHER SPIDER
JAMES D. DOSS THE NIGHT VISITOR
THE SHAMAN MYSTERIES BY JAMES D. DOSS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
1
THE END
HE HAS SEEN it all before. A thousand thousand times… and more. It happens so quickly—within a few beats of his heart.
A thunderous roar; a yellow arc flashes by his face.
Must escape… run… run …
but his feet are rooted in place.
There is a thin whistling sound …
a sudden, mind-numbing pain.
Then …
Filthy water fills his mouth… he struggles… gags.
Bones snap like dry twigs.
He sees the yawning mouth of the pit …
is swallowed up in darkness.
Then …
Someone comes… someone merciful.
It is Death. She whispers to him… caresses his face.
Pain slips away like melting wax.
It is over.
Then …
It begins.
THE BEGINNING
There is—as the sage has rightly said—an appointed time for a soul to come into the world… and also a time to leave it. Before the first is an unremembered history; after the last, an eternal mystery. These are subjects best left to philosophers, mystics, and poets—and others so inclined to squander away precious hours pondering the unknowable. For those of a more practical nature, there is a quite interesting period nestled between birth and death—where the most remarkable things are apt to happen.
No one has a more practical nature than Daisy Perika—that sly old soul who lives near the mouth of Cañon del Espiritu. It comes from experience. The Ute woman is filled to the brim with bone-dry summers and marrow-chilling winters. Each of these seasons has salted her days with those ingredients that make a life palatable. Hard times. Unexpected blessings. Hunger that gnaws at the soul. Merry dancing and feasting. Solemn burials sanctified in mournful song… shrill cries of those newly come into the dawn.
She has known the warm morning of youth, the cool twilight of old age. And now that darkest of dark nights draws near. These should be days for rest and contemplation, the old woman knows. A time to prepare her spirit for the journey into that eternal world… where she will be forever young. But this present world—with its multitude of annoyances, problems, and difficulties—is a very great distraction. By way of example …
Not having a telephone.
Arthritis in her knee joints.
The fact that her favorite nephew is still a bachelor.
Charlie Moon should be raising himself a family, bringing his children out to see her. Daisy Perika has made herself a most solemn promise. She will refuse to die until he marries himself a wife—and that is that.
Once Charlie has a wife to worry about, maybe the Ute policeman will stop nagging her about moving into Ignacio. The Ute elder is quite content to spend her days here in the wilderness. Daisy is, in fact, quite snug in her small trailer. Her home, though it may seem modest, is a way station at the entrance to that great canyon where she hears haunting echoes of words yet unspoken. In this special place, she knows that comfortable security of one who belongs. And well she should. The shaman has plied her arcane craft here for seven decades. She gathers black-stemmed maidenhair fern from the cool depths of the Canyon of the Spirits; she plucks antelope horns from the arid wastelands—but will not touch the dangerous jimson weed.
When her aching legs would carry her there, the old woman scours the windswept roof of Three Sisters Mesa for the purplish-blue flower of the cachana, which is also called Gayfeather and Rattlesnake Master. This hardy herb is useful for a variety of ailments—and as a talisman to protect Daisy’s fearful clients from mal de ojo. The Ute elder—though hardly a timid soul—does not journey to the lofty crown of the mesa more often than is absolutely necessary. Apart from the difficulty of the ascent, this is a holy place, and therefore dangerous to mortals. Here, shimmering ghosts of the Old Ones walk even at noonday—and the pine-scented west winds never cease their melancholy moanings. When the sun sets, there is a black elderberry bush that bursts into scarlet flame… but is not consumed. Moreover, every living thing waits in rapt expectation for the signal that this world is about to end—that long rumble of thunder preceding the final, cleansing storm. A cluster of gnarled piñons lingers here as a stalwart congregation, patiently awaiting the arrival of One who will appear as the lightning comes from the east and flashes to the west… when all of the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
And so the Ute shaman climbs the mesa but seldom… and makes haste to depart before the bush is touched by fire.
From her store of pulpy roots and succulent leaves, those delicate petals of pearly pink blossoms. Daisy brews concoctions both practical and problematical. There are varied purposes for her prescriptions, ranging from the ordinary to the exalted. This sly old physician treats a whole host of common complaints, from nosebleed and menstrual cramp to bite of snake and sting of wasp. Any day of the week, the shaman can conjure away bumble wart or other unseemly blot of skin. With one hand tied behind her back Daisy Perika can ward off vengeful ghost, malicious water-baby… or other such shadowy presence.
The Ute shaman is, of course, not without peers in her chosen field of work.
It is true that there are a few Navajo hand-tremblers and Apache mystics who wield similar powers. There is a very old black man in Pagosa who can mumble away warts from any part of your body. And there is the ninety-pound Cajun woman the locals call Fat Nelda. She plies her dark art in a rusting yellow school bus just south of Mancos, survives on a diet of green tea, pretzels, and Norwegian sardines. This remarkable bruja (so it is claimed) can conjure sturdy new teeth into the gums of old crones and fresh crops of hair onto the shiny heads of those unfortunate men who suffer from an excess of testosterone. She does this for a fat price, of course—and thus the skinny woman’s name. Fat Nelda also sports a black eye of polished jet in her left socket, and claims to see tomorrow and even next week through this opaque orb. Other than these few eccentricities, she is an altogether uninteresting character.
Daisy Perika’s enterprises extend beyond her medical practice. Because of the Ute blood that throbs in her mottled veins, another privilege is hers by birthright. The old shaman has frequent conversations with the pitukupf—that mischievous dwarf-spirit whose underground dwelling is not so far away. His home is an abandoned badger hole in the Canyon of the Spirits. Theirs is an uncomplicated arrangement. The first requirement is that the shaman must take the little man a gift. A small cotton sack of fragrant smoking tobacco. A few turquoise beads on a string. A pearl-handled pocketknife.
This is how it works …
Leave the offering by the badger hole. Now sit down just over there… under the old piñon. Lean your head against its rough bark. Take your rest. Sleep. And dream. The dwarf will slip into your visions… and tell you such strange tales. Accounts of great adventures long past… and of others yet to be. Of spirits who come disguised as whirlwinds. Of mysterious wanderers who come from unimaginably distant places.
Even the shaman does not understand everything the little man says. The pitukupf—like other oracles—tends to speak in sinuous riddles.
Long ago, the elders say—far longer than even the mountains can remember—the little man attached himself to the Utes. They are his adopted tribe; they nurture him in their hearts and in their campfire tales. He is a friend to the People, but he is also somewhat eccentric. Old Utes warn the uninitiated: never, never tether your horse near the dwarf’s home. This goes double for your pinto pony. The little man detests horses… especially spotted horses. If they are found near his badger-hole dwelling, he will most certainly kill them. If you don’t believe it, ask Gorman Sweetwater, who lo st a fine horse in Cañon del Espiritu just four years ago… strangled with vines.
There are rumors that the pitukupf is a thief, but this is not so.
It is true that now and then he borrows a little of this and some of that. And always forgets to return it.
Why?
Because he has his needs. And is somewhat forgetful. He is what he is.
Now the Utes know very well that their dwarf has no dealings with Navajo or Shoshone or Cheyenne, much less the pale-skinned matukach. Even so, there are persistent reports that the little man has shown himself to some who are not of the People. An elderly Hispanic woman over at Bondad (she has also seen angels) claims she spotted the dwarf standing on the banks of the Animas on All Saints’ Day; he bowed impishly and tipped his hat to her! Five years ago, a white policeman told Daisy Perika how he followed tiny footsteps in the snow and had a brief glimpse of a child-sized creature who walked like a very old man. A Navajo follower of the Jesus Way has mentioned regular talks with the dwarf. They have—so the preacher says—smoked the same pipe. And discussed many deep matters. To the traditional Ute, such reports from Hispanic and matukach and Navajo are foolishness—silly talk best ignored. The dwarf would certainly have no dealings with those who were not of the People.
Quite aside from her communion with the dwarf—and like all her shadowy ilk the world over—Daisy Perika dreams many strange dreams. She has beheld horrific visions of blackened, frozen corpses floating above groaning skeleton-trees… warm blood pelting down like summer rain has stained her wrinkled face.
These dark dreams, these pale visions, these urgent communions with the pitukupf … have provided warning of every sort of visitation.
Almost.
Not the least premonition had hinted of what would accompany this approach of night. The skin on her neck did not prickle, neither did shadowy sprite flit in the corner of the shaman’s dark eye… no coiled serpent writhed a cold warning in her gut. On this particular evening, Daisy Perika had not the least inkling that a very peculiar someone was approaching. No, the shaman’s usual resources had thus far failed to quicken her pulse.
And the unbidden visitor was already close at hand. Cloaked by the gossamer fabric of twilight was he… sheathed by a dry skin of blue-gray clay. With the same timeless patience as the sandstone women who wait eternally on Three Sisters Mesa for the world to end, he also tarried at his lonely post. Caring not for ticking clock… nor phase of moon… nor falling aspen leaf that signaled summer’s end.
The night visitor, moving in an odd, shuffling gait, comes near to the shaman’s trailer home. He is weary and wanting rest. But he has important business to conduct here, and a man’s work must be done before he can sleep.
* * *
The mouth of flame flickered… blue and yellow tongues of fire licked at the bottom of the blackened iron pot. The thick brown broth responded with a cheerful bubbling and popping. Wielding a stained wooden spoon, Daisy Perika stirred the hearty stew. Rich vapors rose from the brew; they curled and writhed seductively. She sniffed. And was pleased. When the old woman was but a child, her mother had taught her how to prepare this meal.
Bittersweet memories of youth passed before her mind’s eye; she sighed with deep yearning.
The Ute woman had lived within a mile of this lonely spot since the day of her birth. First in a house of pine logs with a pitched roof of rusted tin. Now, in a small trailer-home crafted of steel ribs and aluminum panels. Though she sometimes longed for the days of her childhood, Daisy grudgingly admitted that hers was a far easier life than her mother’s. She has electricity, a propane tank, a deep well with a Sears Roebuck pump that has not faltered for almost fifty years. She owns a good radio and a black-and-white television that works most of the time. Someday, she might even have a telephone. Someday.
But though a thousand summers have faded with the first frost, as many winters have draped the rounded shoulders of the mountains with shawls of woolly white, much about this land is the same as in her youth—and ever will be. Yes, the important things are unchanged. The brown earth is the same… and the blue sky. Three Sisters Mesa still looms above her, as if the Pueblo women who were turned to stone watch over their Ute sister in the rugged valley below. The mischievous winds of autumn playfully fling handfuls of sand against the Ute woman’s trailer. Swollen November clouds still carry the pregnant promise of heavy snows in the San Juans.
The night visitor cares not whether snows may cover him… nor if the sun will ever shine again. He canngot concern himself with such small matters. His whole mind is focused on his consuming obsession.
Daisy Perika often reminds herself of this: though there are certain drawbacks to living in the solitude of the wilderness, there are advantages as well. Loneliness is more than compensated for by not having to put up with too many fools. Except for Cousin Gorman, of course. Gorman Sweetwater still stops by on his way to check his white-faced cattle who forage for bits of grass in the Canyon of the Spirits, but he is often mildly drunk and always thoroughly foolish.
There are a few visitors who are always welcome, Charlie Moon being chief among them. Daisy Perika feels fortunate to have a weekly visit from her nephew and wishes he would come more often. But a tribal policeman’s life is a busy one. And he’s a healthy young man whose mind is bound to be occupied by other matters. Like young women. Young men and young women, she reminds herself, should enjoy each other. Life’s few pleasures pass us by soon enough.
Daisy Perika once enjoyed the company of men. She has endured three husbands. And buried them all. Now she is very old and enjoys few of life’s pleasures. Except for food. Lately, she invests much thought into what she will have for her next meal. Lamb stew is good, that is true. Hamburgers are tasty too. And pinto beans cooked with onions. Boiled new potatoes and fried green tomatoes. Fat bacon snapping in the skillet with a heap of scrambled eggs.
But nothing… nothing is as good as posole.
Especially if the green chiles are from the flat fields down at Hatch. And the pork is fresh from Fidel Sombra’s pig farm up by Oxford. Of course, you must know how to fix it just right. A few pinches of salt. A half dozen good shakes of coarsely ground black pepper. And before the brew goes on the burner, two tablespoons of flour to thicken the broth.
She gave the iron pot a final stir, then twisted the knob to lower the flame for a bubbling simmer. A sudden gust of wind strained against the trailer’s aluminum skin. The steel bones squeaked and groaned, but did not break. The sturdy little house was much like its occupant.
The winds blow like a fury around the night visitor, who squats under the tossing boughs of a fragrant juniper. But he does not feel the chill in it.
* * *
Satisfied with the fruit of her labors, Daisy ladled out a generous helping into a heavy crockery bowl and seated herself at the kitchen table. She smeared margarine over the last slab of black rye bread. The cupboard was getting a little bare. Her nephew would come by on Monday and drive her into Ignacio to shop for groceries. It was Charlie Moon’s day off from his job at the Southern Ute Police Department, so he’d show up in his big pickup truck. She’d have preferred to ride in the SUPD Blazer—the seat was easier on her back and you didn’t have to step so high to get in.
Daisy helped herself to a spoonful of posole. Then, a bite of bread and margarine. A long drink of cold milk. The old woman closed her eyes in rapt pleasure. My… such a feast.
Moreover, she was entertained as she supped.
The FM radio dial was tuned to KSUT, the tribe’s radio station. And because it was Saturday evening, she listened to a program all the way from Minneapolis. Lots of good music… and The Lives of the Cowboys, with Lefty and Rusty who had themselves a bath maybe once a year and were always chasing after some saloon gal. Like any woman in her right mind would want to snuggle up to a fellow who smelled worse’n his horse. But Daisy’s favorite character on the show was the detective. Guy Somebody. She smiled and dipped up another spoonful of steaming posole. That Guy was always in some kinda scrape. Sometimes he got shot full of holes by gangsters, but he must be a fast healer because he was always healthy enough for next week’s show. And like them pitiful cowboys, he was always in love—but never got himself a woman. Maybe he didn’t bathe neither.
