The night visitor, p.30
The Night Visitor, page 30
The old woman’s nap dragged on. Ten minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.
The games became tedious.
Butter took a hard look at the reclining figure. “I still think she’s dead.”
Sarah expertly tossed a juniper twig at the stump. Hit it dead center. “I’m ahead three points.”
The white girl had a tight-lipped, determined expression. “If she’s dead, we’ll have to pile rocks on her. To keep the buzzards from pecking her eyes out.” Butter found a half-pound slab of sandstone and was about to drop it on the sleeping woman’s abdomen.
Sarah quickly took the rock from the smaller child’s hands.
Butter was not annoyed by this intervention. But she was terribly bored.
The older girl decided that a nap was the best way to keep the smaller child out of mischief. “Let’s sit down and rest.” She maneuvered Butter under the juniper tree, and sat down by Daisy. Sarah leaned her left shoulder against the sleeping woman, and hugged the white child with her right arm.
Within moments, Butter was yawning. Finally, her eyes closed.
Sarah knew that she must remain awake. And watchful. What if a mountain lion creeped up on them? Someone would have to wake Aunt Daisy, so she could scare it away with the shotgun. But the sun was high now, and quite warm on her face. The bed of juniper needles was so wonderfully fragrant… a mountain bluebird sang the sweetest song… and she was so snug in her heavy coat and long woolen stockings. Mr. Zig-Zag climbed onto her lap and licked her face with a sandpaper tongue. Within a few minutes, the Ute-Papago child was feeling deliciously comfortable. Quite against her will, Sarah Frank’s dark eyes closed. Soon, she was fast asleep… under the shaman’s sleeping-tree.
Sarah Frank sat cross-legged in the lair of the dwarf. It was a funny little room. The walls were dirt and rocks; long hairlike roots hung from the ceiling. The only light came from a small hearth, where embers of aged piñon burned cherry-red. Gray smoke curled upward into a sinuous tunnel. The badger hole, she assumed. Somewhere just above, Daisy and Butter were sleeping in the sunlight. The pitukupf sat on a stool by the hearth, staring oddly at his young visitor. He seemed ill at ease, but he was very gentle. As if concerned that he might frighten the child.
He was terribly old-looking. And had ugly yellow teeth. But she thought the little man in the green shirt somewhat comical, and almost cute.
He spoke to her.
Sarah could not understand a single word he uttered, though it did sound like the Ute tongue. But the most absurd things occur in dreams… she understood his thoughts.
This is what the little man was thinking:
He was displeased with Daisy Perika and had no intention of appearing to the aged Ute woman. But the dwarf knew that the child had left gifts for him. While Sarah watched, he cracked a peppermint between yellowed molars. Then he poured a dab of tobacco in a brown leaf and rolled a small, crude cigar. He touched the end of this assembly to the embers, then began to puff with evident appreciation. Sarah—who did not approve of this unhealthy habit—wrinkled her nose and tried not to inhale the pungent smoke.
When his homemade cigar was spent, the dwarf came close to the child, uttering unintelligible, though soothing words. She understood that—if she was willing—he would send her on a wonderful journey. To a strange place where she would witness a marvelous event.
She loved to travel.
“When would I go?” she asked.
And got her answer. She would take her leave on that night when the moon did bleed.
The child—who knew full well that the earth’s satellite could not bleed—thought this a most peculiar thing to say. And wondered if this little fellow was on the up-and-up.
The dwarf was not a patient soul. He required an immediate decision. Would she go?
Sarah hesitated, then nodded her assent.
The pitukupf took a small blue feather from his shirt pocket, and touched her forehead.
So it was that she departed from the badger hole.
The Ute woman and the pudgy matukach child stood watch over the unconscious girl. The old shaman was astonished. She had never imagined that this might happen. For one thing, Sarah was only half Ute. But on the other hand, it was the child who had placed the gifts at the badger hole. Maybe the little man didn’t care if you were half Papago as long as you brought him presents. The thought galled the Ute elder.
Sarah Frank groaned. Her eyes, half-closed, rolled upward. Only the whites showed.
Butter Flye, who was hungry for lunch, tugged at Daisy’s coat. “Why don’t we just wake her up?”
“Because,” the shaman said, “she isn’t sleeping.”
Butter looked up quizzically. That didn’t make any sense. Unless… “She ain’t dead, is she?”
“No,” the Ute woman said, “she’s not dead.” Not exactly …
Sarah’s legs jerked spasmodically; she moaned. The child opened her eyes and looked around wildly. Who was this old woman… this fat little white girl? Mr. Zig-Zag came and leaned against her chest. And purred. And gave her a lick on the nose for good measure. And then it began to come back to her. She stood up stiffly.
Daisy patted her head. “You all right, child?”
Sarah, still somewhat dazed by her experience, nodded dumbly.
The old woman shouldered the twelve-gauge. Despite her intense curiosity, Daisy Perika would ask no further questions of the child. It would not be proper. So the trio headed down the long, sandy trail toward the mouth of the canyon. Toward a certain kind of reality.
Butter Flye had picked up a stick. She used it to knock dead flowers off reedy stems.
Mr. Zig-Zag made a useless leap at a small rodent, who disappeared into a tiny hole in the crotch of a scrub oak. When the cat gave up his futile pursuit, the gray mouse poked its head out to deliver an outraged diatribe to the feline.
Sarah Frank floated along, barely feeling her feet touch the ground. She was adrift in a current of most peculiar thoughts.
THANKSGIVING DAY
Daisy Perika paused near the entrance and shuddered. The towering excavation tent—with its three great peaks—suggested an enormous black owl. With dark brow, leathery wings spread in malign reception. Not sleeping. Waiting.
For a lunch of mice, perhaps.
The Ute elder looked down at these two of such tender years, one clinging to each hand. She spoke to the chubby white child. “You sure you want to do this?”
Butter Flye—who was sucking at her thumb—nodded. She seemed not the least alarmed to return to this place. It was, of course, not in the belly of night as on her last visit. But the pale autumn sun cast long shadows of the old woman and her charges. The shades clung to their heels like hopeful tenants… ready to claim right of occupancy should the human souls depart.
Under the central peaked dome of the tent, the quartet of academics sat around the card table. The two elderly paleontologists, the pretty young archaeologist, the perpetually amused physician who played well at all the world’s best games.
Moses Silver folded his hands like doubled fists on the flimsy table. He eyed each of his companions in turn. His daughter returned his weak smile. Robert Newton avoided eye contact. Cordell York was, as usual, quite at ease. Moses cleared his throat. “It seems, my esteemed colleagues, that we find ourselves on the horn of a dilemma.”
“In light of the nature of Mr. McFain’s most peculiar death,” Newton muttered, “one finds the expression… somewhat unseemly.”
“Robert, I do beg your pardon,” Moses said. Stuffy old goat.
Cordell York—who was enjoying himself immensely—grinned wickedly. He winked at Delia, who pretended not to notice this small attention.
“Please,” she said, “let Father have his say.” To encourage him, she patted Moses’ liver-spotted hand.
She was more like a sorrowful mother than a respectful daughter, Moses thought. He lowered his eyes to study his hands. Hands that had done so much work. For so many years. He stretched out his fingers, and studied these remarkable products of a billion years of tedious evolution. Soon the skin… the flesh… the tendons… all would be dust. Only the fragile bones would remain. And these only for a time. “There are certain issues that must be resolved.”
Cordell York tapped a long pipe stem against his lower incisors.
Clic-clac.
Clic-clac.
Clic-clac.
Moses fixed his tormentor with a cold glare.
The physician, thus challenged, clamped the pipe stem between his teeth.
Moses continued. “The flint artifact removed from the premises by Mr. McFain is lost to us. Perhaps irretrievably. Even though we have several excellent photographs made by the journalist, we are not in possession of the one piece of unequivocal physical evidence that would verify the association of early humans with the mammoth remains. So,” he attempted without success to make eye contact with the doleful Robert Newton, “our only remaining evidence is… the markings on the femur.” His meaning was perfectly clear. It was time for a firm decision from the world’s expert on butchering marks. Were these incisions on the mammoth’s femur evidence that some ancient hunter had carved himself an extremely rare steak off the hind leg of the elephant? Or were they merely the marks of a predator’s tooth? The answer, in light of the missing flint artifact, seemed all too obvious to Moses Silver. But Newton had been noncommittal.
Robert Newton had gotten the general drift of things. He sat there, staring at the table, rubbing his callused hands together.
Cordell York relighted the pipe, and made three quick puffs. “Robert, it’s time to stand up and be counted. So tell us, old boy—is it or ain’t it?”
Newton licked his lips. “As you all know, I have studied the markings on this femur with considerable care. I have taken high-resolution microphotographs. I have compared the shallow incisions to dozens of others from fossil bones known to be the result of stone-age human butchering practices. I have also compared the markings with modern carnivore tooth marks on bones of prey; these were made by a variety of predators, including African lion, Bengal tiger, Canadian wolf, and …”
York was chuckling, the expensive pipe rattling between his teeth. “For Pete’s sake, Bob, shit or get off the pot!”
Newton paused, and blinked at the arrogant man. “Sir, if you wish to know my conclusions, you will hear me out. One does not appreciate interruptions.” He sniffed.
This unexpected show of spirit amused the surgeon, who made a small, sarcastic bow. “Forgive me if I have offended in any way. Please continue. Toward your conclusion. No matter how long it may take.” York glanced at his wristwatch, then at a calendar tacked on the tent pole.
Robert Newton, who had somewhat lost his place in the carefully prepared monologue, paused. “Oh, piffle,” he murmured. One might as well go to the bottom line. “I conclude that …”
Three scientists leaned forward with great expectation.
“… it is not possible to come to a firm conclusion. What one needs is further supporting evidence. It is a great pity that we no longer have the flint blade.”
Delia bowed her head. She wanted to cry.
York was hugely enjoying the farce. “Well, thank you, Robert. You are a thoughtful and thorough scientist. You have not disappointed us—you have, indeed, fully met—nay, exceeded—all our expectations. I daresay this is your finest hour.”
Robert Newton was quite relieved at what he perceived to be a compliment, and nodded gravely to indicate his appreciation. “One is always happy to serve… in the cause of science.”
Though the hint of a sardonic smile played at his lips, Moses Silver was deadly silent. The paleontologist was lost in a marvelous fantasy. He would, despite his considerable age and stiffening joints, leap across the table like a gazelle. Grab the wishy-washy old bastard by the throat. Strangle him to death. He could see Newton’s face turning parchment-white, his blue tongue protruding from his mouth. No protest from Delia or Doc would deter him from his sacred duty. Hordes of uniformed police could come to save Newton—but they would not pry him off. They could club him with baseball bats, he would not let go. Not even when they emptied their revolvers into his body. And when he was dead, ten strong men would not be able to unclench the death-grip in his fingers. No. If the survivors wished to bury them separately, they would have to cut off his hands at the wrists. Or—and this thought pleased him—they could cut off Newton’s hollow head at the neck.
His morbid reverie was interrupted by a rude, raspy voice.
“Hey. You got company.”
All heads turned. It was the old Indian woman. Daisy Something-or-other. With a little girl hanging on each hand. Delia went to greet the elderly woman. “It’s so nice to see you.”
Daisy did not respond.
“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” York asked.
“Well,” the Ute woman said earnestly, “it’s Thanksgiving Day.”
“Indeed it is,” the physician said.
“On Thanksgiving Day, Indians and whites get together. And eat venison. Com on the cob. Lime Jell-O with grapes in it. First time, the Indians brought the grub. This time, I figured maybe you folks would whip something up.”
They stared at the solemn-looking Ute woman for a long, painful moment. She was very old. Must be demented.
It was Cordell York who broke the silence. “I’m afraid all we can offer is tinned beef. And perhaps some tomatoes.”
He pronounced the word to-mah-toes, and this annoyed Daisy Perika. She considered such variation from “normal” English to be an unseemly affectation. “I was hoping for turkey,” she said. “And cranberry sauce.”
The scientists decided that this must be some sort of jest.
“Heh heh,” Moses said. His face was turning a dull red.
“Ha,” Robert Newton added politely. “One is thoroughly amused.”
Delia seemed embarrassed.
Daisy sighed. Boy, this was a typical bunch of educated white people. Slow as third-class mail.
Delia kneeled to speak to the children. “Do you want to see the bones we’ve uncovered since you were here last?”
The children nodded in unison, then headed toward the edge of the pit.
Daisy Perika shook her head wearily. “Butter’s been pestering me for the last three days to bring her back here. Don’t know what she sees in this place; it gives me the creepy-crawlies.” The Ute elder glanced at the excavation. Looked like they’d patched up the big tusk Nathan broke off when he fell.
Delia watched the girls, who were standing a yard away from the edge of the excavation. Staring at the fossil bones. Whispering to one another. Pointing. “The children don’t need a tour guide today.”
All three men pretended to be quite pleased by the Ute woman’s visit. Robert Newton was most solicitous. “Is Mr. Flye’s little girl getting along well?”
Daisy shrugged. “I guess so. But it’s been hard on Butter, what with her father takin’ off an’ leaving her all alone.”
The scientists exchanged uneasy glances. All were aware that the big Ute policeman was this old woman’s nephew. It was Moses Silver who asked the question on all their minds. “I don’t suppose there has been any report of Mr. Flye’s… whereabouts.”
Daisy smiled. People always thought Charlie Moon told her everything. Wouldn’t do to disappoint them. “My nephew’s looking everywhere. I expect he’ll turn ’im up sooner or later.”
Engrossed in their thoughts, they did not notice that the children had lost interest in the excavation pit.
“I wonder,” Cordell York mused, “where on earth he could be.”
Butter Flye’s small voice shattered the silence. “He’s here.”
The startled adults stared at the small child.
Delia, pale as freshly fallen snow, stared past the little girl. “What did you say?”
Butter let out a long sigh. “I said he’s here.”
Moses gave the child an odd look. “Here? Where?”
“Under the ground.”
It was Robert Newton who took charge of the situation, and this bold initiative surprised his colleagues. “Excuse me, little miss. Would you like to tell me just what you mean?”
Butter led the old man to the edge of the excavation pit. And pointed to the animal’s pelvis. “He’s right under there.”
He kneeled by the child. “Ah… and how do you come to know this?”
She looked at him with an expression of exasperation. “Because he told me.”
Newton nodded. “Oh, well then… if he told you.”
The Ute woman felt panic rising in her gut. Next thing you knew the mouthy child would tell them how she’d wandered away that night. How she’d been found in the tent, little better than dead. Charlie Moon would be sure to hear about it. And he’d come and take the children away from her. No, this thing had gone far enough. Daisy grabbed the little girl by the hand. “I think we’d better be going.”
The scientists watched the old woman lead the children through the tent door. And then they were gone.
“Poor child,” Newton said.
They exchanged wary looks.
Moses noticed that Delia was extremely pale; her hands were trembling. He remembered his daughter’s breakdown after the miscarriage. “Dear… are you all right?”
She nodded. “That little girl—she seems so certain …”
“That’s absurd,” Moses said gruffly. “Horace Flye’s ghost has not come back to tell his daughter where he is buried.”
“Perhaps the child dreamed it,” she mumbled. Dreams do tell the oddest tales …
“It is a fact that Mr. Flye is missing,” York pointed out. “The Indian policeman suspects he has met with foul play—and that his body is hidden somewhere on the McFain property.”
“It is impossible,” Moses said flatly, “that Mr. Flye’s body could be buried beneath the mammoth’s pelvis.”
York was frowning, like a student dealing with a difficult math problem. “Unlikely, perhaps. But certainly not impossible. The soil under the fossil bones, though undisturbed for millennia, is primarily sand. Not that difficult to remove and replace. Someone could have interred the body at night. Packed in the loose soil over it, added a little water to make it set. It would have been dried out by morning, looking quite natural.”
