James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

Daisy was a good Catholic. She knew that revenge was wrong, but she rationalized that this was a special case. This FBI man had accused her of serving dog meat to a guest, and in doing so he had insulted the People. That could not go unanswered. Justice must be served. Sometimes, of course, justice could be served on a platter. With mashed potatoes and gravy. Now the shaman laughed. She laughed until streams of tears blinded her.

Daisy's niece glanced at the elderly woman, but she dared not ask any questions. When this old woman had been up to something, it was best to remain ignorant.

Daisy recalled Hoover's rapt expression as the special agent gobbled up the delectable sausages. She also remembered Dr. Schaid's alarmed expression when he heard her bizarre request. The animal doctor was worried about getting into trouble with the authorities. He had hesitated until she assumed her 5most solemn expression and insisted that the tissue specimens were needed for a secret Ute sacrificial rite. The matukach , who entertained absurd notions about mysterious Native American ceremonies, were so gullible.

And, in a way, she had not lied. It had been a sacrifice. The neighborhood sarichi might be howling high notes at the moon tonight, but they sure wouldn't be chasing bitches in heat. Not after sacrificing their cuquavi !

The shaman's laughter shook her small frame, leaving her weak and drained.

Scott Parris pulled the stiff collar of the leather jacket over his throat; he squinted against the wind-driven sleet that stung his eyes. He pushed his battered felt hat down until a stabbing pain from the fifteen stitches at the base of his right ear took his breath away.

The rocky, treeless hillside was disfigured with intermittent clumps of dead sage and chamisa. The markers were starkly simple. This lonely place was not a cemetery. This was a graveyard. Forlorn acres where the bodies of the poor were interred in sixty-dollar plastic caskets paid for by the good citizens of La Plata County. It was a resting place for the unknown. The forgotten. The policeman had promised himself-he would never forget! Every year on this day, God willing, he would be here.

This grave, like most of the others, had no tombstone. Just an aluminum tube supporting a plastic holder. He pulled a tumbleweed off the marker. The paper card behind the cracked cellophane window had a typed entry:

HERBERT ECKER

The anonymous typist had not bothered to enter the date of birth. Or of death. Parris looked over his shoulder, making sure he was alone. But there was no need for concern about privacy; hardly anyone visited this place. Especially on this day. He focused on the card in the plastic holder and held onto his hat brim as a gust of wind snatched at the dead weeds on the grave mound. The shrill voice of the wind promised a blizzard before the year was new.

"Well, kid," he said hoarsely, "time rolls on down the road, and I guess we're along for the ride." The policeman felt enormously self-conscious, speaking over a grave… as if the dry bones could hear his voice. He removed his hat, braving the stinging crystals of ice.

"It's already Christmas Eve. You can see I made it with a day to spare." His throat was tight; he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. He paused for a few seconds, taking deep breaths of the frigid air. A promise made. A debt unpaid. The little book was in his coat pocket, but he was determined not to use it. After endless hours of rehearsal, he would get it right. Word for word, from beginning to end. Scott Parris cleared his throat. And began…

' 'A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malamute Saloon; The kid that handles the music box was hitting a jag-time tune .…"