The Drowning Man by Margaret Coel

Author:Margaret Coel
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2006-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

18

“FIRST TIME I heard the stories of the petroglyphs…” Ellie Nighthorse paused, and Father John watched the black eyes dart among the other members of the liturgy committee. She was a large woman, leaning back against her chair, the dark flesh of her arms crossed over a white blouse. The stories weren’t for everyone, he knew, and for a moment he wondered if he should leave, make some excuse about having to finish some work this evening. The meeting had gotten under way an hour ago. Nobody had even looked at the agenda. Nobody was interested in anything other than the fact that another sacred petroglyph had been taken.

Amos Walking Bear shifted in the chair beside him. “It’s okay,” the elder assured the woman. “Nobody here but us.”

Us. The word fell like a soft blanket over everyone at the table. He was one of them, the Indian priest. Ellie cleared her throat and went on with her story: How Grandfather was still a boy when he went up to Red Cliff Canyon. Rode his pony there by himself in the winter, ’cause he wanted to be with the spirits. Wanted to ask the spirits to show him the road he oughtta follow. There was snow everywhere, Grandfather said. Snow covering the ground and pushing down the branches of the pines, and it was real quiet. That was what he remembered about the canyon, how quiet it was, like the world had stopped.

Ellie Nighthorse hesitated again. She tilted her head back so that her black hair folded like a scarf below her head, her eyes gazing upward, as if there were an image on the ceiling of the boy riding into the white silence. She went on: Turned the pony up the mountain, and the snow was so deep, that pony got to be a high trotter. Grandfather couldn’t see the petroglyphs and he was getting worried, he said, like he wasn’t worthy to see the images of the spirits. So he closed his eyes and hung on to the pony, and he prayed. He said, “If I am worthy, please show yourselves.” When he opened his eyes, he seen them. Up the slope, straight ahead, and it made him laugh, he said, he was so happy. So he laughed into the silence, and the sound of him laughing kept coming back at him.

That was when he heard the sounds of the village, he said. That was the special part, the sounds of drums and singing, the horses neighing and dogs barking. He heard the clinking sounds of the warriors making tools. The village was right in front of him, spread in a circle all around the petroglyphs, the white tipis lifting up like snowdrifts, little campfires burning in front, and people coming and going, women tending the cooking pots over the fires with babies strapped on their backs. He seen all of it, he said, before the village and the ancestors vanished into the boulders, and all that was left was the pictures they’d carved in the rocks, so we’d remember.

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