The Spirit Catchers by Kathleen Kudlinski

Author:Kathleen Kudlinski [Kudlinski, Kathleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-87498-6
Publisher: Potter/TenSpeed/Harmony
Published: 2004-11-30T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

White

Parker had trouble sleeping that night. He scolded himself for getting soft. He had slept out on the road before, but things were different, then—simpler. Once he rolled out of the blanket onto the sandy dirt. Shivering, he brushed the sand off his cheek and rolled up again, glad for the scratchy warmth of tightly woven wool. He thought to thank the sheep for its wool, which led him to wonder about spirits.

Another time, the call of coyotes echoing against the cliff came so close he thought they were going to attack him. Parker pressed back into the shelter of the juniper bush and tried to be silent while his heart pounded. He listened to the coyote’s calls change suddenly, then relaxed as their excited yips chased some prey off into the darkness. Finally he heard a gurgling scream as their hunt ended. Drought meant hard times for the coyotes, too.

Once, he awoke to rustling sounds nearby. Starshine and moonlight were bright enough to cast shadows, but not bright enough to show him what all was slithering and skittering along on the ground nearby. Parker pulled the blanket tighter and tried to will himself back to sleep. That was hard, with O’Keeffe’s surprise visit running through his mind. This wasn’t fair, he thought. His decision had been made. He was going to California. Now he had to stay and take pictures at dawn for a crazy artist who couldn’t say please. Had he been trapped? If he had, at least he’d been fed and covered, too. It gave him a nice feeling to think of her turning on horseback and telling him to stay safe. As soon as he settled back into sleep, his eyes opened to make sure he hadn’t missed dawn’s colors reflecting against the cliff.

At last the sky paled to charcoal gray, then blue seeped into the shadows. At the first sign of gold by the horizon, Parker unrolled himself and got stiffly to his feet. He checked the film in O’Keeffe’s camera, ate a last biscuit from the pail, stretched, and groaned. The glittering orange rimmed a cloudless sky. Parker peered through the lens at the cliff. Every one of its rock layers had changed color. He snapped the shutter and wound the film. Moving sideways, he retraced the route O’Keeffe had taken that first day, snapping shots as the pinks deepened to orange, the buff became peach, and the white rock became flesh.

Suddenly Parker let the camera sag against his chest. “Stupid,” he yelled to the desert. “Stupid!” the cliff yelled back. “Black and white!” he told the desert. “Photos are black and white.” He let himself crumple to his knees.

What kind of fool was he? “You have a good eye,” O’Keeffe had said. What good was an eye if there were no brains attached? How—Parker gazed at the cliff before him—was he supposed to catch the dawn colors in black and white?

He looked up at the rocks and tried to see the darkest parts as black.

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