The Witch's Tongue

I wish to offer my thanks to these kindly folk:

Glen Raby, Chimney Rock Area Manager USDA Forest Service, Pagosa Springs District

Administrative Sergeant Leon Mares Southern Ute Tribal Detention Center, Ignacio, Colorado

Dick Hutson and Bob Newell Los Alamos, New Mexico

Tom Elder
Arroyo Seco, New Mexico

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE
:
REGARDING THE WITCH’S BODY PARTS

CHAPTER TWO
:
THE PLAYERS

CHAPTER THREE
:
THE SHAMAN SLEEPS

CHAPTER FOUR
:
IN THE SHAMAN’S DEN

CHAPTER FIVE
:
THE SEARCH

CHAPTER SIX
:
THE MOONBEAM CLIMBER

CHAPTER SEVEN
:
CONTRIVED ENTERTAINMENT

CHAPTER EIGHT
:
BAD MEDICINE

CHAPTER NINE
:
THE FULL TREATMENT

CHAPTER TEN
:
THE VISITATION

CHAPTER ELEVEN
:
THE FOREMAN

CHAPTER TWELVE
:
THE HARD-LUCK KID

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
:
SUNDOWN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
:
SERIOUS BUSINESS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
:
DUTY CALLS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
:
THE CONUNDRUM

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
:
THE LADY

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
:
THE BETTY LOU PRESCRIPTION

CHAPTER NINETEEN
:
SHIRLEY

CHAPTER TWENTY
:
THE POLITICIAN

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
:
THE NAVAJO TENANT

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
:
LUNCH WITH OSCAR

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
:
THE WARNING

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
:
THE OPPORTUNITY

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
:
HAUNTED

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
:
THE WAGES OF SIN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
:
THE SHAMAN’S REMEDY

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
:
BERTIE AND JANE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
:
THE MUSEUM

CHAPTER THIRTY
:
AN INTERNAL MATTER

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
:
NEWMAN’S PARTNER

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
:
THE GENTLEMAN’S PROPOSITION

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
:
THE UNEXPECTED

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
:
THE DATE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
:
THE FILE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
:
A SMALL SURPRISE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
:
A MODEST RECOMMENDATION

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
:
THE BROADCAST

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
:
DREAMING WOMAN

CHAPTER FORTY
:
A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
:
CAÑON DEL ESPIRITU

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
:
THE CAMEL’S BACK

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
:
THE CALL

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
:
ENCOUNTER IN IGNACIO

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
:
IN THE SIDE POCKET

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
:
SUSPICION

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
:
SATISFACTION

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
:
THE CLIENT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
:
THE APOLOGY

CHAPTER FIFTY
:
SNYDER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
:
THE RETURN

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
:
THE EXCHANGE

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
:
MCTEAGUE’S TRIUMPH

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
:
EPIPHANY

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
:
THE EXHIBITION

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
:
GRANITE CREEK PD

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
:
ALMOST TRUE CONFESSION

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
:
THE LADYSMITH

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
:
THE SACRAMENT

CHAPTER SIXTY
:
AMAZING GRACE

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
:
A DONE DEAL

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
:
METAMORPHOSIS

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
:
THE BOX

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
:
MONTHS LATER

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
:
DUE RECOGNITION

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
:
THE SHAMAN’S NEW FRIEND

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
:
AN OLD, SWEET SONG

Nearly thirteen thousand summers have passed since that splendid morning when the first human footprints appeared between these towering canyon walls. But in all the years since that singular event, not one good thing has happened here. This being the case, hardly anyone visits this remote and dreadful place—though the rare exception is worthy of mention.

Consider Jacob Gourd Rattle.

Cloaked in twilight shadows, the solitary man holds a pointed stick in his hand. With the terrible intensity of a fanatic, the meticulous draftsman draws a coffin-sized rectangle in the sand. Satisfied with the length and breadth of his plan, he considers its depth.

The customary six feet is what he had in mind, but the soil is packed with stones and there will be tangles of roots to cut. The laborer balances rocks and roots against the weight of tradition. The scales hesitate, then tilt to accommodate his predisposition.

Four feet will be enough.

THE TRIBAL ELDER

DAISY PERIKA
is a crusty old recluse, much preferring her lonely wilderness home to a more comfortable house in Ignacio. Because the dirt road to her small dwelling is treacherous even in dry weather, the Ute elder’s flesh-and-blood visitors are few and far between. For the determined hiker, her dwelling is a three-hour walk from the paved road. For the motorized pilgrim blessed with fortitude and four-wheel drive, the journey can be completed in twenty-nine spine-jarring minutes. By the light of the waning moon, the amber-eyed owl wings her way from here to there in scarcely any time at all.

Whether locomoting by foot or wheel or wing, the traveler eventually encounters a collection of sandstone mesas rising above the arid prairie grasslands. Each of these isolated plateaus is separated from its neighbor by a deep, sinuous canyon. Three Sisters Mesa is bordered on the west by the narrow, meandering
Cañon del Serpiente
and on its sunrise side by
Cañon del Espiritu
. This latter chasm is, according to Daisy Perika, a place where the spirits congregate.

Perilously near the yawning mouth of Spirit Canyon, almost concealed among a cluster of juniper and piñon, is her modest house trailer. Resembling an oversized metal mailbox, the Ute woman’s home stands confidently on stubby legs of cinder blocks. Scorched by decades of blistering sun, pelted by wind-driven sleet and sand, its once-glistening surface is now spotted and blotched by a sooty oxide pox. Now and then, a rivet pops. Beneath the thin aluminum skin, brittle steel bones fracture and crack. At sunrise and sunset, corroded joints expand and contract, making awful creaks and squeaks. When they work at all, electrical things sizzle and sputter. On her cookstove, blue circles of propane flame flicker and flutter. In the deep trough of night, the ghost in the thing utters painful groans and quaking shudders. The shaman’s home should have collapsed long ago, and died a quiet death. But like its stubborn occupant, the structure remains. Moreover, it is a place where things tend to happen. Special things. And from time to time, distinguished visitors come to call. On this very day, for example.

In the small kitchen, seated at the table, see the kindly man of God—the tight-lipped woman.

THE PRIEST

HAVING COMPLETED
his prayer, Father Raes Delfino opened his eyes, saw the Ute elder’s prune-skin face staring at him.
Daisy seems upset. Perhaps she has already guessed what I am about to tell her
. He had known the peculiar woman far too long to underestimate her powers. He hesitated, then got on with it. “I came to see you today—because I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Daisy Perika held her breath, waited to hear the bad news.
He don’t look healthy
.

The Catholic priest smiled at this meddling gossip, this wicked prankster, this seesawing backslider, this troublesome woman who persisted in her conversations with the dwarf-spirit—this most beloved member of his flock. “Just this morning, I posted a letter to the bishop. I am asking his permission to retire.”

Oh, God—I knew it. He’s dying!
She laid one trembling hand over the other. “When?”

“It is not for me to say.” The cleric stirred his coffee. “But I expect it will take at least six months—perhaps a year—for the ecclesiastical wheels to grind their grist.”

He must have a cancer
. “You’re sick.”

“Oh no, I am quite well.” He chuckled.
Far better than I have ever been
.

“Then why…” The old woman’s words trailed off down the path to nowhere.

He reached across the table, took her hand in his. “Because, dear lady—it is time.”

Daisy brushed away the single tear coursing its way down her face. “Where’ll you go—to one of them old priests’ homes?” She snorted. “Sit in a wheelchair with a bib over your shirt while somebody feeds you oatmeal from a tablespoon?”

This produced a belly laugh. “Gracious me, I hope not.”

Her tone was accusing. “But you’ll move away from the reservation.”
A long way away. And I’ll never see you again in Middle World
.

He gave her a thoughtful look. “If God is willing, I will find a quiet place to rest.”
And pray
.

I know what it is!
The elder screwed up her courage. “Some people in Ignacio say you’ve been acting funny lately.” She added darkly, “They claim you haven’t been paying attention to church business—that you go around all day mumbling prayers and psalms. And singing to yourself.”

“God forgive me, it is true.” The holy man put on a repentant expression. “Now you see why I must be replaced by someone younger. A practical no-nonsense priest, who will get things done.”

Daisy was not fooled by this evasive response. “There’s even some that say you’ve had some kind of a
religious
experience.” Her tone was distinctly accusing.

Father Raes arched an eyebrow. “Do they now?”

She nodded, pierced him with a flinty look. “Some say you saw an angel in the church one night. Others say you saw—” But
that
could not be repeated. “Is that why you’re bailing out?”

He frowned. “Now, Daisy—do you really believe I’d let a bit of gossip drive me away?”

“You know what I mean. Are you retiring because you had a vision?” Daisy Perika encountered astounding apparitions once or twice every month, and the old shaman was not thinking about retiring.

The priest assumed his severe persona. “We will not discuss such rumors.” Having done his duty, he softened his tone. “But I assure you—I am not retiring from the active priesthood because of anything I have
seen
.” This was literally true. It was, in fact, what he had
heard
. But this would never be revealed to another mortal. Especially not to this Ute Catholic, who was a shaman on the side. Or was it the other way around?
God have mercy on our souls
.

The subject was thus dismissed. They talked for a while of other matters.

About Daisy’s nephew, tribal investigator Charlie Moon.

About God and his Son. And the Holy Spirit.

Stern admonitions were given. And sweet blessings.

Promises were made.

And finally, good-byes.

ADRIFT

DAISY PERIKA
stood on the wooden porch attached to her trailer home, wrinkled hands gripping the pine rail. The sounds of the priest’s automobile were lost in the winds. Thick mists billowed and rolled out of the wide mouth of
Cañon del Espiritu
. The old woman felt as if her feet were slipping on the deck of a small ship tossed by a heaving, unseen sea. As the porch began to creak and sway beneath her feet, she craned her neck forward—straining to get a glimpse of that familiar landscape that must be out there still. It was not. For a terrifying moment, she was almost convinced that the pale blue sky, the piñon-crested mesas, the sinuous brown canyons—had never been. But in the pocket her mind, she had kept them, and could perceive them there. As she held on to the rail of the rolling craft, the elderly Catholic meditated on the Captain of her Soul.

Presently, the sea mists thinned.

The little porch became steady again.

The Ute shaman squinted at the massive stone figures waiting patiently on the crest of Three Sisters Mesa. Could those petrified women see through the mists of time and space? And the
pitukupf
who lived far up
Cañon del Espiritu
in the abandoned badger hole—could the dwarf reveal when the priest would leave her, and where Father Raes would go? This thought gave the old woman some slight sense of confidence. Everything would work out. One way or another, it always did. Maybe no replacement would be found for the priest. Then the bishop in Pueblo would tell Father Raes he had to stay for a few years more.

At least until I am gone from Middle World…

Daisy rubbed a sore hip and sighed.
I’ll go inside, heat up the chili stew
.

But not so very far away, where a man had drawn four lines in the sand—a blacker pot had already begin to brew.