James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

Hoover's tone was flavored with a smooth, almost folksy humility. "Well, you must understand that I didn't do it all by myself. In addition to the Bureau's excellent forensics laboratory, I had the entire staff of the Southern Ute Police under my direction. Without their tireless footwork, my development of the evidence leading to Herb Ecker might have taken much longer."

Scott Parris felt a sense of unreality, disconnection. This wasn't happening.

The female voice continued: "What evidence links this suspect to the mutilations?"

Hoover's voice barely betrayed his uncertainty. "The suspect precisely fits our profile of the murderer-mutilator. He had motive and means and opportunity."

"I understand that Mr. Ecker was killed before he could be interrogated about the mutilations___"

"Yes," Hoover said sorrowfully. "The officers responsible for that action were not operating under my direct supervision when the shooting occurred. There will be a thorough investigation of Mr. Ecker's death, but the Bureau has no solid evidence… uh… at this time… that Mr. Ecker's civil rights were violated by the two policemen responsible for his death."

Parris gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. "That sanctimonious little son-of-a-bitch!"

The interviewer continued. "I understand that you are somewhat of an authority on Ute culture." Hoover had told her as much in the pre-interview conference.

"Well," Hoover said modestly, "I'm still learning, but I do pride myself on understanding the psyche of the Utes. They're really a great bunch of folks. With a little assistance from the Bureau, the Southern Ute Police have real potential of becoming a first-rate law enforcement operation."

"Would you like to tell us who, among the Ute policemen, helped you the most in solving this case?"

"Well… I'd really like to name some names for your audience, but you know how it is, if you forget even one person you're in big trouble." Hoover chuckled amiably. "I'd just like to congratulate the entire staff on the Southern

Ute police force for their excellent support of this important FBI case."

When the interview was completed, the station cut to a commercial spot hyping a deodorant soap. Anne shook her head in wonder. "He practically accused you and Charlie Moon of misconduct. That is simply astonishing."

"Not when you get to know him," Parris said bitterly. "It's vintage Hoover." He wondered why Sam Parker didn't sack this idiot. Did Hoover have some political juice?

Anne was using the mirror on the sun visor as she touched up her lipstick. "Tell me, once more, word for word, what Daisy Perika said about the owl dipping its talons in blood."

"I can't remember it that precisely," Parris said wearily. "There was this shadow that turned into an owl. It killed a Ute. That'd be Arlo Nightbird. Then it became a shadow again."

"An owl. Shadows. Symbols," Anne whispered. "Her visions are in symbols. But remind me; what did that poor boy say just before he died?"

"Said he'd come to dance. Then, he said something about a shadow coming. Swift and sudden. Dark and dreary. Stuff like that."

"Robert Service poetry," she said sadly, " 'March of the Dead.' Not particularly cheerful." Anne leaned over and kissed him on the neck.

He swerved onto the shoulder, then back onto the pavement. "You can do that again."

She did.

Daisy trudged along the deer path. When she got to the barbed wire fence that kept Gorman's Herefords in Spirit Canyon, she moved to the canyon wall and squeezed past the last cedar post. As she climbed the slight grade into Canon del Espiritu , the old woman stopped several times to lean on her oak staff and catch her breath. With every year, the walk seemed longer, the path steeper. Before a long time would pass, her breath would be gone forever and she would walk through Na-gun-tu-wip , where the spirits of the wan-dering dead dwell. As she passed through, wolves would howl and threaten her with bared teeth; serpents would hiss at her bare feet-but if she could maintain her courage she would pass over that great chasm to that land of everlasting light where she would put on a new, strong body. A body that would never grow old.

But that would come later, at the appointed time. Now, she was old and her back ached. Daisy consoled herself with the comforting knowledge that the path back to her trailer home would be downhill.

As she approached the abandoned badger-hole that was the entry into the home of the pitukupf , she paused and carefully dropped an offering of corn pollen onto the sandy canyon floor. The figure she drew with the pollen was a circle within a circle: the sun encircling the moon. This done, she approached the hole cautiously and squatted, hugging her staff with one arm. How long had he lived here? A thousand years? A thousand centuries? The shaman removed a brown paper parcel from her apron pocket and unwrapped it as she gave thanks to the One Spirit who guarded all creation. Daisy placed two new packages of Flying Dutchman pipe tobacco on the sand beside the badger hole. It was the pitukupf's favorite brand, much to be preferred over kinnikin-nik , the wild tobacco that grew in the canyon. She spread a yellow paper napkin beside the tobacco and placed a shiny pocket knife with red and green plastic handles on the center of the napkin. The pocket knife was inexpensive, but the dwarf had no concept of money. And he would appreciate the bright colors. It would never have occurred to the shaman to doubt that soon after she left, the little creature would retrieve the tobacco and the pocket knife.

When her task was completed, Daisy used her heavy oak staff to push herself erect. Before beginning the long walk home, she turned to look at the nearly vertical cliff wall adorned with ancient petroglyphs. Daisy's eyes, as always when she stopped at this sacred place, scanned the figures scratched into the sandstone canvas. She frowned and squinted to focus her eyes___Something was wrong. There was a figure on the wall she had never seen before. It was very faint, perhaps the evening sun was just right to cast shadows in the shallow lines scratched into the stone. Or was it something new? She moved closer, looking up at the etching of a figure. A figure with hundreds of tiny rays covering its surface… a hairy creature. A creature with a tail. A creature with horns! She crossed herself, and hurried away.

Daisy Perika walked stiffly down the road to her mailbox, thankful for the cool breeze from the northwest. It had been an unusually mild autumn, but soon the first frost would kill the pesky deerflies that bit her ankles. Then the heavy blanket of snow would drape its soft shawl around the Three Sisters who kept their faithful watch over Canon del Espir-itu . The old woman opened the dented steel box and removed a thick stack of mail. That very strange man from the old Carson show still wanted to give her millions of dollars. There was an official looking envelope from the alcoholic's shelter in Denver, a plea for another donation from the Jesuit Father in New York. She sighed. You sent these people a few dollars and they never let you rest!

The tribal newspaper was welcome mail. She unfolded the Southern Ute Drum and read the front page as she slowly made her way up the lane toward her trailer home. A powwow at Shiprock. A cut-rate spay-neuter clinic at Dr. Schaid's animal hospital. The Navajos were promoting another boycott against the business community in Farmington. She turned the page. A fishing contest at Capote Lake. The Nightbird Insurance Agency would be reopened under Emily Nightbird's maiden name. When she turned the page again, she saw the story. The Economic Development Board intended to pursue Arlo Nightbird's quest to turn Canon del Espiritu into a "Spent Nuclear Fuel Holding Facility." Ahhh… the pitukupf would not be pleased with this plan to dump garbage in the place where he lived!