The wind caller necon co.., p.2
The Wind Caller (Necon Contemporary Horror), page 2
“I understand, Mr. Kershner,” Sky said, tapping the Are Our Hands Clean? poster just above the silhouette of a child’s hand made out of red construction paper. Black smudges and scribbles had been added to the tips of each finger and across the palm. The hand next to it, unscribbled and titled “Clean,” had been cut out of white paper. “But you don’t honestly think that any teacher in this school will put these posters up, do you?”
She watched the man’s narrow eyes dart back and forth and the wrinkles in his overly high forehead deepen as he stared at the Bureau of Indian Affairs-approved placard without seeing any problem.
And that was the problem.
“What color is this hand!” she asked, tapping the “Clean” side.
The man’s forehead didn’t unwrinkle when he looked up. Sky could already tell he wouldn’t last long and that she might not even have all that much to do with his decision to leave.
“I beg your pardon!”
“This hand,” Sky repeated, tapping the white cutout. “What color is the paper?”
“White!”
She gave him a blinding smile, the same kind she usually gave students who remembered to raise their hands to ask permission to go potty.
“And this one?” she asked, pointing to the other cutout.
“Red. Ms. Berlander, is there some point to all this?”
“Just that no kid in this school will be able to wash their hands hard enough to tum them white.”
The man’s face remained poised on the edge of utter bafflement as he squinted down at the poster. He had no idea what she was talking about. Christ, Sky thought, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from voicing the sentiment out loud, you probably won’t last out the semester. She could only hope.
“I’m afraid I still don’t ... Oh.” He looked up, the faintest hint of a blush blooming in his cheeks. “The red hands are the dirty ones.”
“That’s right, dirty little red hands, Mr. Kershner,” Sky added just in case he still didn’t have a full grasp of the situation, “just the thing for dirty little Indians to see.”
The blush swept across his face like a prairie fire. “Ms. Berlander, I’m shocked at that statement.”
“Well, you should be, Mr. Kershner, because that’s exactly what the kids in my class are going to think when they see that poster.”
The expatriated Upper New York Stater raised his hands, fish-belly-white palms toward her.
“Now, let’s not blow this out of perspective, Ms. Berlander. These posters were created solely for the purpose of promoting cleanliness in children whose reading skills are still developing. I seriously don’t think the staff of educators who created this were implying any sort of ethnic criticism. Besides, I don’t think the children in your class will even notice it. They’re very young and — ”
“Impressionable, Mr. Kershner ... and you’d be surprised what they notice. Let me ask you a question,” she continued, staring at the pink lines that criss-crossed his palms. “Would you put up the same sort of poster in a central-city classroom if the illustration representing the ‘dirty’ hand were black?”
Sky watched the man’s hands clench into fists, fingers closing over the pink lines like the legs of a dying albino spider.
“Of course not.”
“Why? The color black is most often used to show dirt or mud.”
The red tint in the man’s cheeks had deepened to the same shade as the tiny construction paper hand on the poster.
“Because it would be inappropriate, Ms. Berlander.”
“Because the children in those schools are black, Mr. Kershner,” she said, lowering her hands, her red hands, into her lap. “And that’s why I won’t hang that racist piece of propaganda in my classroom. But what I will do is have the children trace their own hands and scribble on one to show the difference between clean and dirty, because hygiene is a very important concept to learn. Will that do?”
The man picked the poster up off his desk and glared at her over the top of it. The vein in his right temple, the color of blue corn, throbbed.
“I think that’s an excellent idea, Ms. Berlander.”
“I’m so happy you agree, Mr. Kershner.”
Flashing him another you’ve done well smile, Sky stood up and walked to the door she had closed behind her after storming into his office twenty minutes before. She could feel his eyes on her, but his stare had a much different feel to it than the looks she got from other men — white and Indian. The only thing Mr. Kershner wanted from her was for her to get out of his office and take her radical ideas with her.
Halfway through the door, Sky stopped and turned around.
“I’m afraid I will need to requisition a new box of red crayons for this project,” she said.
“Make out an order slip and leave it with Mrs. Willowstick.”
“I’ll do that, thank you, Mr. Kershner.”
“Anytime ... Ms. Berlander.” His chair creaked when he leaned back. “I do hope your class hasn’t missed you too much.”
Sky looked out the window behind the man’s right shoulder, shaking her head. Her class was sitting in a semicircle on the hard-rubber tetherball court, hands folded neatly in their laps, mouths (surprisingly) still, attention focused on the old man hunkered down on a child-size chair in front of them.
“I don’t think they even know I’m gone,” she said. “It’s their story time.”
CHAPTER 2
Joseph stopped only long enough to tuck a stray wisp of hair back under his headband. The hair hadn’t bothered him at all, but he’d wanted to check his audience to make sure the children were still caught fast in the story’s web. Even his own two grandsons, who had heard the story since they were infants and knew it almost as well as he did, had wandered away from their recess time and sat down to listen. And they weren’t the only ones: The original class of eleven had almost tripled in size, starting with the ring of Sky’s second-graders and moving back, like ripples in a quiet pool, to the line of adult playground supervisors.
Smiling, he leaned forward over his knees and continued, keeping his voice low so his audience would have to be quiet in order to hear.
He hadn’t been a storyteller for almost seventy years without learning a few tricks.
“And the Old One said, ‘I will be master over You, as a man is master over his own dwelling.’ But the Wind spoke back and asked, ‘How can You be master over Me? For I am like the Earth beneath your feet and the Sky above your head. I am alone unto Myself ... and no man shall call himself master over Me.’ And then the Wind hurled herself at the Old One and carried Him up into the great blackness beyond the rim sky’s blue bowl. She had hoped to kill Him and so silence His boasting, and if He had been just a man, She would have hurled him back onto the earth like a stone.”
Straightening suddenly in the tiny, uncomfortable chair, Joseph clapped his hands together and smiled at the startled gasps. A few of the adults giggled behind cupped hands, embarrassed at having fallen victim to so simple a trick, but none of them walked away.
“But the Old One held on to the Wind as if She were a wild pony and sang to Her the words He had heard in His dream that was not a dream. He had hoped to calm Her with this song, and yet still the Wind would not listen. ‘I am the Wind,’ She told Him again, ‘I will not be mastered by man or a song.’ But still the Old One sang.
“For thirteen moons the Wind carried Him above the Earth ... sometimes so high the stars twinkled below Him, sometimes so low that the grass of the great plains whipped against His skin ... and still He sang, holding Her gently as a father would his child. For thirteen moons it was so, and then, in the Moon of the Whispering Wind, She began to tire.”
Elbows on knees, Joseph leaned forward and let his eyes scan the silent, eager faces before him.
“And what do we call that moon?” he asked.
“Osomuyaw,” his youngest grandson, Andrew, answered without hesitation.
Joseph smiled, nodding. “Osomuyaw, yes. She began tiring then, and Her voice grew harsh until She could only whisper. Finally, like a wild pony that realizes it can’t escape the rope around its neck, the Wind lowered Him softly onto the tender shoots of new grass that dotted the land. And still the Old One sang His song ... stopping only to blow into the spirit whistle He had made from a willow stalk. At the sound, the Wind became as a stallion ... rising up as a giant tornado that blocked the sun and brought darkness down over the Old One.”
Joseph lifted his face toward the clear sky and closed his eyes.
“But even in Her rage, the Wind was powerless to harm Him because He had used His magic bravely and continued to play the binding song. And when She knew She would never be free again, the Wind accepted Her fate and slowly settled back to the earth.
“‘What do you want of Me?’ She asked. And the Old One lowered the whistle from His lips and sprinkled an offering of blue com to Her, for He respected Her power and strength. ‘I will master You only to help Our People,’ He said. ‘I will not break Your spirit or bend You to My will, for You are a holy thing. Together We shall bring the rains from the high mountains to water the fields. Together We shall keep the deep snow away from the village. And Together We will destroy all those who wish Our People harm. And Man will worship You and give You blue com and the first spring lamb to eat and sweet water to drink, and You will be one with Our People.’
“And the Wind listened and considered and found it to Her liking ... for She had always been alone and never before had belonged to a tribe. ‘I shall come with you, Old One,’ She said, ‘and from this day onward, Our People will call You Yaponcha, the Wind Caller, and We shall be together always.’
“With this said, the Wind Caller broke the spirit whistle and the Wind stayed and did His bidding from that day to this.”
The adults moved away first, drifting back to their playground duties, followed by the older children, Joseph’s twelve-year-old grandson and namesake leading the pack toward the basketball court for a quick game before the bell rang. The rest of the children stayed where they were, wondering, perhaps, what it would feel like to ride the wind through the sky.
“Grandfather?”
Joseph looked over the faces until his eyes settled on a thin-faced boy, one of Andrew’s friends. All the children and most of the adults in the reservation addressed him as “Grandfather.” It was an archaic term of respect and status, and Joseph was proud of it.
“Yes, Billy?”
“Is the Wind Caller still alive, Grandfather?”
“Of course he’s still alive,” Andrew said, nudging his friend in the ribs. “Don’t be such an iggy — igney-amous — igner ... dope, Billy.”
A few of the children giggled, and it was hard for Joseph not to join them. Andrew, he knew, would carry on after he was gone as the new Storyteller. Clearing his throat, Joseph raised a finger to his lips and waited until the gigglers quieted down.
“Yaponcha lives, Billy, but not like you or I live. He is a spirit who dwells high in the mountains.” Joseph pointed to the misty purple shapes on the northern horizon. “Alone in a cave until He is needed to control the wind.”
“And he never comes out until then?” Andrew asked, caught up in the legend.
“Well, sometimes, on nights when there is no moon and the wind creeps low to the ground, He comes out of the cave to sing His ancient songs.”
He could almost feel the shiver of excitement that raced through the children. Joseph knew there would be no moon that night — he’d checked it in the weather section of the morning paper — and also knew that at least half the children would lie awake in their beds, listening.
“What does he look like, Grandfather?” a girl near the back asked. “Yaponcha, I mean. I’ve never seen his Kachina or mask at any of the dances.”
Joseph felt the wind against the back of his neck and pulled his coat tighter over his chest. Winter was not yet ready to give up its hold on the land.
“Yaponcha has no mask or Kachina. He is the God of the Whirlwind, and no man may impersonate Him. To do so would call down His anger.”
The girl whispered something to her friend, who nodded gravely.
“But if he’s a god, Grandfather,” Andrew asked, even though he knew the answer, “how can he control the wind?”
“He can’t,” Joseph said, and heard the sudden intake of breath, “so once in a generation a Chosen One is selected from the people and learns the ancient secrets. And if that living man has listened and learned well enough, the Old One allows him to become the living image of the Wind Caller.”
“Can a girl become the Wind Caller?”
The children exploded into laughter and openly jostled the questioner — a girl of ten or eleven with eyes the color of polished obsidian. She shoved back, smiling.
“The Wind Caller,” Joseph began, then waited until the children were once again paying attention, “can be whoever Yaponcha feels is worthy, man or woman ... or child.”
The wind circled around him, swallowing the soft murmurs.
“Has Yaponcha ever spoken to you, Grandfather?”
Joseph met his grandson’s eyes. It was the one question he had never answered.
And this time he was literally saved by the bell.
As the combined sounds of buzzer, voices, and pounding feet became just an echo across the quickly abandoned schoolyard, Joseph stood up and tried to push the stiffness out of his lower back.
“If you’d let me know you were coming,” a sweet voice said, “I would have brought out a bigger chair.”
Joseph felt his smile falter as she came toward him.
“You’re too thin, Cielo,” he said as she kissed his cheek, “and there is fire in your eyes. Come eat with us tonight and tell me what happened. Did you argue with your principal again?”
The sound of her laughter, though forced, brought the smile back to his lips.
“I only fight for my principles, Grandfather. You should know that by now.”
He nodded, knowing all too well. “But you should still come to eat.”
Sky was shaking her head as she stepped back. “You’re worse than a Jewish mother, you know that? I’m fine, really. So, what story did you tell them this time?”
“About the Wind Caller.”
“Yaponcha.” She spoke in a whisper, with reverence. “You know that’s all they’ll be talking about for weeks now, don’t you? And we just finished our unit on the Kachinas last week.”
“A week to study their heritage?” Joseph sighed as he touched her cheek. “Cielo, that’s not right.”
Sky pulled the thick sweater she wore tighter across her chest.
“Maybe not, Grandfather, but they have to learn other things besides Hopi legends. When they grow up, they’ll have to know how to live outside the reservation. “
“Like you, Cielo?”
She pressed her lips together in what might have been a grin or a grimace. “It’ll be easier for them. They’ll be Indians living in a white world, not some half-breed pretending to belong to both.”
“Is that how you truly feel, Cielo? You know you’re accepted here.”
“I know, Grandfather, it’s just that I’m ...” She shook her head and brushed the hair away from her eyes. The wind had picked up and was swirling around them. “Forget it. I guess I am still a little upset with the idiocy of the educational system. But it’s nothing I can’t handle, really. And speaking of education ... my kids have probably torn the classroom apart by now. I have to get back to them. And next time give me some notice that you’re coming, okay?”
“I’ll try to remember.” Joseph walked next to her until they came to the door leading into the building. He’d been sent away to an Indian school when he was twelve and still could not bring himself to willingly enter such a place again. “Will you come to eat with us tonight, Cielo?”
“I can’t, sorry.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll probably be up all night correcting papers, but thank you for the offer, Grandfather.”
Without another word, Sky turned and walked away into the world of overhead fluorescent lights and learning history from books. Joseph watched her disappear around a corner, then walked to one of the wooden lunch benches that bordered the playground to the west. School would be over in less than an hour; he’d wait for his grandsons.
The wind caught up with him halfway across the playground, kicking up dirt and debris around his feet before speeding off toward town.
Joseph stopped and watched a small dust devil play with the tattered remains of a white plastic shopping bag. The bag moved like the ghost of a dead warrior, twisting and turning north across the barren land without pause.
And gathering speed.
Joseph stuffed his right hand deep into the pocket of his coat and absently fingered the small willow whistle that rested there. Tonight, if any of the children did stay awake, they’d hear more than imaginary songs.
Sky stood at her classroom window, alternating between waving to those children who had were already outside and heading home, and trying to hurry the usual slowpokes. Normally, she would have let them take as long as they liked — the current record was held by Timmy Cainimptewa at fifteen minutes, ten seconds — but she had plans tonight that had very little to do with grading papers, as she had told Joseph.
She hated lying to him, even so small a lie, but telling the truth would have embarrassed them both.
Or maybe it would have just embarrassed her.
“Come on, you guys,” Sky said, clapping her hands at Timmy and the two other children. All three of them jumped as if they’d just been woken up. “You don’t want Mr. Wiharu to lock you in when he comes to clean up, do you?”
The three children looked up at her in horror, and Sky turned quickly back toward the window to keep them from seeing her smile. Tom Willis had been the janitor at the school for almost as long as anyone on the reservation could remember, and had danced as Wiharu, the White Ogre Kachina, for even longer. Tom Willis, the man, loved children, but Tom Wiharu, the White Ogre, was duty-bound by his Kachina to frighten children into behaving. Being accidentally locked into the school by this man was not an option most children ever wanted to face.
