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Spirits
The old woman sat back fingering grey tendrils of wind blown hair and watched her boy, now a man, clear the orchard ditch of debris. He had grown tall and strong, and his skin, unlike hers, was as brown as adobe. His long black hair swung across his bare broad shoulders as he moved. Her clear blue eyes stared at her son steadily as he worked, yet all she could see was his father.
She blinked back the memories and looked across the mesa to her favorite beacon, Cerros Pedernal, Abiquiu Mesa, which stood tall and bold on the Taos horizon. Since her arrival in New Mexico thirty years ago, she had never lived out of sight of it. The simple sight of it brought her focus, stability, and peace and it did not fail her now. She breathed deeply and finally succumbed to a past she had long since forgotten. Since her husband's death, these haunting thoughts taunted her regularly. The high desert winds blew a dust devil across the mesa as places, people, voices swirled around her separating her from the world she lived in, sweeping her away to the beginning.
~~~~
Tomasito's Massacre
Ten men swung by their necks from gallows erected in the plaza. A man in a uniform spoke to the silenced crowd, but the boy did not hear him. He watched from the corner of a building, watched the moccasins of his father swing in the dust. The boy's long hair flew in his face with the April wind that churned dust devils and tumbleweed across the open mesa. To be anywhere but here, thought the boy, but his feet would not move and his gaze could not leave the beaded feet.
The old men and women from the village began to sing the death song, their words soft and melodious beneath the harsh barking of the man on the platform. Their voices were singing the souls of the men to the safety of the sacred groves of Aspen high in the mountains, far from the plaza. The boy knew what they were doing and knew that his father's spirit would rise from his body and drift like the wind over the rooftops of the General Store, past the town streets, past the wagons pulled by horses with bent heads, past the meadows, and rivers, beyond the Pueblo, and up into the trees on the mountain. He knew he'd be able to look up and see the mists circling the mountain and know that his father was with the ancestors watching over him. But knowing all this did not ease his simmering heart.
A little girl clinging to her mother's skirt watched the boy hugging the corner of the wall. She saw the tears stream down his cheeks leaving clean dark tracks over his dusty cheeks. She knew the baked mud walls scorched his hands and forehead, but the boy did not flinch from the radiating heat. Not until brown hands lifted him onto a wagon seat did he move.
The men from the village had been allowed to retrieve the bodies and wrapped in blankets they now lay in the back of the wagons. They boy glanced back over his shoulder and could recognize the outline of his father's leg. A runner’s thigh. With the jostling of the wagon over the rough dirt road into the Pueblo, he could see the bodies jolt and slide. The thick strands of his uncle's long loose hair, so black it almost seemed purple in the strong southwestern sun, danced over the side boards with a life of its own. An arm pulled him back around and he found himself smothered in shirt folds, soothing sounds being cooed to the top of his head as if there were no words for such times. He hadn't been aware of himself crying but the sobs he heard racked his body, constricted his throat, and chattered his jaw.
The bear he heard growling ran recklessly through the forest and bounded into the thicket of thin saplings, young bark silver, petal leaves shivering in the breeze slapped against each other like wind chimes.
~~~~
The Rabbit Hunt
The first rays of morning peered through the small window set high in the adobe wall of the two thousand year old pueblo structure in the north village. It stretched slowly across the dark earthen room, and onto the face of a sleeping man. He knew it was time to rise, but felt as though he had just put his head down. The heaviness of exhaustion was overwhelming and he rolled over not wanting to lift himself from the comfort and warmth of his bed. He heard his ninety year old grandmother stir in the other room and knew that she would soon be up to make tortillas.
He loved her tortillas, warm and fresh. The bowl of dough had been sitting out all night beneath a towel. He had watched her many times, with her tiny weathered hands tearing balls of the soft airy dough and rolling it out into a thin round sheet. He had asked her to teach him how to make them, but she just laughed and ignored his request.
Reluctantly throwing back the covers, the man rose, slid on his traditional wrappings, leggings and moccasins leaving his Levis and boots in the corner for later. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he tied back his hair and slid on a shirt. Stirring the ashes in the old wood cook stove brought sparks from which he easily rekindled a fire with pinion and cedar stacked by the doorway. Then, he slid from the depths of the house out into the dawning July day.
The dirt road was dry and dust began to cake his denim leggings and buckskin moccasins. His stride was fast and long as he ran through the back streets, past dilapidating HUD homes, the police station, out onto the north road practically over grown with wild rose hedges. In the early spring these fields were filled with small blue irises which grew wild as far as the eye could see.
The blazing New Mexican sun rose as he ran, his shirt open and streaming behind him, his abundant hair, folded back and forth and tied tightly around the middle, bouncing at his neck. Although the day was young yet, the heat was beginning to rise and as it had rained the previous evening, sage drenched steam simmered from the damp ground. He startled a family of quail as he thundered past, soft leather shod feet pounding the red ground rich in clay and history. As he rounded a bend in the road, he came upon other men who had gathered early for the rabbit hunt.
Spirits
The old woman sat back fingering grey tendrils of wind blown hair and watched her boy, now a man, clear the orchard ditch of debris. He had grown tall and strong, and his skin, unlike hers, was as brown as adobe. His long black hair swung across his bare broad shoulders as he moved. Her clear blue eyes stared at her son steadily as he worked, yet all she could see was his father.
She blinked back the memories and looked across the mesa to her favorite beacon, Cerros Pedernal, Abiquiu Mesa, which stood tall and bold on the Taos horizon. Since her arrival in New Mexico thirty years ago, she had never lived out of sight of it. The simple sight of it brought her focus, stability, and peace and it did not fail her now. She breathed deeply and finally succumbed to a past she had long since forgotten. Since her husband's death, these haunting thoughts taunted her regularly. The high desert winds blew a dust devil across the mesa as places, people, voices swirled around her separating her from the world she lived in, sweeping her away to the beginning.
~~~~
Tomasito's Massacre
Ten men swung by their necks from gallows erected in the plaza. A man in a uniform spoke to the silenced crowd, but the boy did not hear him. He watched from the corner of a building, watched the moccasins of his father swing in the dust. The boy's long hair flew in his face with the April wind that churned dust devils and tumbleweed across the open mesa. To be anywhere but here, thought the boy, but his feet would not move and his gaze could not leave the beaded feet.
The old men and women from the village began to sing the death song, their words soft and melodious beneath the harsh barking of the man on the platform. Their voices were singing the souls of the men to the safety of the sacred groves of Aspen high in the mountains, far from the plaza. The boy knew what they were doing and knew that his father's spirit would rise from his body and drift like the wind over the rooftops of the General Store, past the town streets, past the wagons pulled by horses with bent heads, past the meadows, and rivers, beyond the Pueblo, and up into the trees on the mountain. He knew he'd be able to look up and see the mists circling the mountain and know that his father was with the ancestors watching over him. But knowing all this did not ease his simmering heart.
A little girl clinging to her mother's skirt watched the boy hugging the corner of the wall. She saw the tears stream down his cheeks leaving clean dark tracks over his dusty cheeks. She knew the baked mud walls scorched his hands and forehead, but the boy did not flinch from the radiating heat. Not until brown hands lifted him onto a wagon seat did he move.
The men from the village had been allowed to retrieve the bodies and wrapped in blankets they now lay in the back of the wagons. They boy glanced back over his shoulder and could recognize the outline of his father's leg. A runner’s thigh. With the jostling of the wagon over the rough dirt road into the Pueblo, he could see the bodies jolt and slide. The thick strands of his uncle's long loose hair, so black it almost seemed purple in the strong southwestern sun, danced over the side boards with a life of its own. An arm pulled him back around and he found himself smothered in shirt folds, soothing sounds being cooed to the top of his head as if there were no words for such times. He hadn't been aware of himself crying but the sobs he heard racked his body, constricted his throat, and chattered his jaw.
The bear he heard growling ran recklessly through the forest and bounded into the thicket of thin saplings, young bark silver, petal leaves shivering in the breeze slapped against each other like wind chimes.
~~~~
The Rabbit Hunt
The first rays of morning peered through the small window set high in the adobe wall of the two thousand year old pueblo structure in the north village. It stretched slowly across the dark earthen room, and onto the face of a sleeping man. He knew it was time to rise, but felt as though he had just put his head down. The heaviness of exhaustion was overwhelming and he rolled over not wanting to lift himself from the comfort and warmth of his bed. He heard his ninety year old grandmother stir in the other room and knew that she would soon be up to make tortillas.
He loved her tortillas, warm and fresh. The bowl of dough had been sitting out all night beneath a towel. He had watched her many times, with her tiny weathered hands tearing balls of the soft airy dough and rolling it out into a thin round sheet. He had asked her to teach him how to make them, but she just laughed and ignored his request.
Reluctantly throwing back the covers, the man rose, slid on his traditional wrappings, leggings and moccasins leaving his Levis and boots in the corner for later. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he tied back his hair and slid on a shirt. Stirring the ashes in the old wood cook stove brought sparks from which he easily rekindled a fire with pinion and cedar stacked by the doorway. Then, he slid from the depths of the house out into the dawning July day.
The dirt road was dry and dust began to cake his denim leggings and buckskin moccasins. His stride was fast and long as he ran through the back streets, past dilapidating HUD homes, the police station, out onto the north road practically over grown with wild rose hedges. In the early spring these fields were filled with small blue irises which grew wild as far as the eye could see.
The blazing New Mexican sun rose as he ran, his shirt open and streaming behind him, his abundant hair, folded back and forth and tied tightly around the middle, bouncing at his neck. Although the day was young yet, the heat was beginning to rise and as it had rained the previous evening, sage drenched steam simmered from the damp ground. He startled a family of quail as he thundered past, soft leather shod feet pounding the red ground rich in clay and history. As he rounded a bend in the road, he came upon other men who had gathered early for the rabbit hunt.