James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

Homer chuckled. "I think she likes you, Charlie. Maybe she's tryin' to tell you something."

Maybe she was. Something peculiar had happened here, and he could still sense the remnant of its presence. Like a bad odor. The Ute policeman had an unsettling sensation-he had felt unseen eyes staring at the back of his head since he arrived at the buffalo pen. Aunt Daisy would say: "Pay attention to your spirit when it talks to you, Charlie. Sometimes it sees what your eyes can't." Maybe. But the wrong kind of imagination could get in the way of good police work. He grunted and turned toward the Blazer. "Let's go find some breakfast."

Homer Tonompicket followed, pleased at what he had accomplished by involving Moon in this mystery. The missing buffalo was now a police matter; it would be Charlie Moon who would write the official report. Moon would have to face the tribal chairman who sat in the chamber under the mounted head of the great buffalo, presiding over the affairs of the People. Tonompicket shuddered at the scene his mind painted. The chairman would be flanked by irate members of the tribal council, who would demand to know how Rolling Thunder had been lost and who was to blame. But Charlie Moon would cover for the game warden; Homer's face had recovered its customary smile. He drifted off into nostalgic recollections of Ernest Tubb and Roy Acuff and Little Jimmy Dickens. And, most of all, old Hank Williams. Under his breath so Charlie wouldn't hear, Homer sang a few lines about a man who was so awful lonesome he might as well just lay down and die. He felt the tears well up in his eyes; the tight knot in his throat choked off the sad song. Homer was remembering someone… his quiet little wife. Elisabeth had finished washing the breakfast dishes on that gray day in March. Then, she simply walked out the front door. He thought she was going to get the newspaper, but she didn't come back. He'd heard gossip that his wife was living with a school teacher in Albuquerque. Or with a truck driver in Fort Collins. Or that she had died from the tuberculosis in Kansas City. It was more than three years now, but Homer still expected her to show up any day. He sighed and shook his head in bittersweet sorrow. "You know, Charlie," he rasped hoarsely, "there damn sure won't never be another Hank Williams!" Or another Elisabeth.

Moon turned onto the blacktop and thought about it. Homer was right. Old Hank had crossed that deep river a long time ago. And now Rolling Thunder was gone. Vanished. Like night mist in the morning sunshine. But the Ute policeman had sensed something; this piece of work had the character of… a message . He had no idea who had written this letter, but there was no getting around it-the name on the envelope was Charlie Moon.

CaXon del Espiritu

It was early morning. The pale moon was still hanging in the western sky and the rising sun was blocked by a heavy bank of clouds. Daisy Perika bent over to pour cold well water from the galvanized pail onto the thirsty roots of a Better Girl. "There, there, sweet little tumdtis ," the old woman sang soothingly to the scrawny tomato vine, "have yourself a long drink." She would have felt foolish if anyone could have heard her speaking to a plant, but there was not a living soul within a mile of her little trailer home at the mouth of Canon del Espiritu . The shaman was not concerned that one of the multitude of ancient ghosts might venture forth from their peaceful rest in Spirit Canyon to eavesdrop on an old woman's conversation. You learned to live with the uru-ci like you learned to live with the nervous little prairie rattlesnakes. You let them alone, respected their right to be where they were, they wouldn't harm you. Well, most of the time they wouldn't.

With some difficulty, she stood upright and straightened her aching back. What the half-dozen blighted tomato plants needed was a taste of fertilizer, but she had already used up the last of the blue powder from the box of Miracle-Gro and would not be able to buy more until the social security check arrived in her mail box. It would be cheaper to buy tomatoes at the grocery store in Ignacio, but their tart taste didn't compare to her sweet vine-ripened Better Girls.

As Daisy was wondering whether her little vegetable garden could endure for another week without fertilizer, a small cloud slipped over the white disk of the moon. Into the shadowy stillness, a gust of wind was exhaled from the yawning mouth of Cauon del Espiritu , whipping the old woman's wool skirts around her arthritic knees. The wind was deathly cold. She turned to gaze intently toward the mouth of the canyon. The shaman was certain that in her mind's eye, she could see the male spirit of this icy wind-a billowing gray form that beckoned to her. This was, as her grandmother would have told her when she was barely twelve, a sign to be read. Daisy turned her gaze upward to a small dark cloud that moved stubbornly against the winds. While great cumulus clouds were drifting to the east, this dismal blemish of frozen vapor was attached to the face of the moon as the great orb fell toward the western horizon. Yes, the cold wind from the Canyon of the Spirits was certainly a sign. And the wrong-way cloud was also an omen. But what did it mean? Daisy Perika thought she knew.

"Charlie," she whispered, "Charlie Moon…"

Interstate 25, South of Denver

Scott Parris hadn't spoken ten words during the long drive to the airport. Anne Foster unbuckled her safety belt and moved close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He tried to ignore the soft waves of strawberry hair, the scent of honeysuckle. The policeman glanced at Anne's safety belt, now useless on the passenger seat. "I oughta give you a ticket for that."

She whispered in his ear. "For snuggling? Not even the chief of police would be so unromantic."

In spite of his glum mood, he smiled briefly and put his arm around her. "You'll be a long time gone." And so far away.

"Oh, I don't know. It'll pass quickly enough for you, with all your official duties to keep you occupied." She pretended to pout. "You'll probably forget all about me."

"Yeah," he muttered, "when pigs learn how to fly.". "When they do," she countered, "you could wing out to see me. I'd love," she added in a husky whisper, "to entertain you."

He pulled her close, and grinned. "From time to time, a man does need a bit of entertainment."

Anne had little to say on the rest of the trip to Denver International, and he had less. He checked her bags and picked up her boarding pass. As they hurried toward the gate, Parris held her bulky carry-on in one hand, squeezed her little hand in the other. His thoughts were on an earlier journey. The airport that time had been O'Hare. It had been Helen who hung on his arm and promised that the brief visit to her mother in Canada would just "whiz by." His wife had died in Montreal in a freak traffic accident. This catastrophe had sent him into a deep abyss of depression and triggered his early retirement from the Chicago police force. That trip to the airport had started a tragic chain of events that eventually led him to Granite Creek in Colorado where he had now served almost two years as chief of police.

He kissed her, then watched her slender form disappear into the mouth of the long tunnel that disgorged its contents into the belly of the sleek airplane. Scott Parris stood by the plate glass window; he frowned at the greasy stains on the engine cover and wondered whether the near-bankrupt airline could afford proper maintenance. He also wondered when he would see her again- if he would see her again. The policeman turned away, angry with himself for these absurd, neurotic imaginings. Of course the engine wouldn't fall off the wing. Of course she would be back. And if the deep lonesomes moved in to stay, he would say good-bye to Colorado and show up at her door. This fantasy was immensely calming.