Chapter 8: Spirits in the Fire

Graydon stood balanced on his skis, his ski poles planted firmly to each side. He felt that he was hanging, totally suspended in space.

His legs ended at his boot tops. Nothing of snow or shadow or outline or slope or mountainside could be seen around him. He stood lost in a perfect "whiteout," that rare condition of light in which snow and sky blend perfectly together. There was no trace of shadow or highlight, no visual clue of slope or horizon. He stood visually lost, suspended in white.

This was serious. The condition evolved around him while he traversed the snowy slopes across the flank of Thompson Ridge. A lowering cloud cover, lit by the overhead sun, created a perfectly diffused light coming from all directions with no shadows. His ski tips might be on the snow or over the lip of a steep precipice. There was no way to see. Upslope he could see evergreen trees. Across the valley he saw scattered barns and ranch houses and clumps of trees, and the cottonwood bottoms on the valley floor. But all of that was hanging, suspended in shadowless white.

Recalling the shape of the mountainside and its slope, Graydon eased forward, gliding slowly, advancing one ski and following with the other. He braced himself with his long poles as he moved in slow, gliding steps. A moment of panic gripped him when he fell, his skis plunging downward under him. He landed on his face in the snow. He'd skied off the steep cut bank of a jeep track gouged out of the hillside, and fell onto the road. He got his skis straightened under himself, levered himself up, and dusted the dry, powdery snow from his pants and jacket. Steadying his nerves, he realigned himself to resume his trek to the hidden winter lodge.

A fire blazed in the great fireplace; his heavy wool outer pants and nylon ski jacket hung from crossed ski poles leaning against the rock face to dry. Graydon lay on a pad of blankets, stretched out in the light and warmth from the fire. The whiteout had resolved itself once he'd reached the edge of the timber and could use the trees for guidance across the snowy track. He'd eaten a hot meal, soup and beans and franks with a slice of homemade bread, and was sipping his second cup of hot tea and honey. He'd stay overnight and resume his ski trek after an early breakfast of bacon, eggs, and biscuits.

He did not bring his rifle on this trek. Winter was a hard time for animals, small and large, and he had no wish to kill anything needlessly. Deer, snowshoe hares, grouse, ravens, weasels (ermine in their black-tipped winter white coats) were companions on his solitary treks. He didn't need the rifle. There was nothing to fear that was not more afraid of him as a human than he of them; only cougar and bear could pose a possible threat and they had been pushed back miles beyond the valley region.

He used the firelight to update his journal, writing his impressions of the day, then he lay down for sleep. He used one folded wool blanket as a pad. He wrapped himself in a second blanket with his jacket rolled up for a pillow.

Graydon slept on the great hearth, wrapped in his wool blankets. The amber glow of coals half buried in ashes bathed him in their warm light. Their warmth let him slumber in comfort while outside, in the silvered light of the half moon, the winter landscape lay in frigid slumber. The temperature, in the lower 20's, kept the snow in a dry powder state. Not a breeze stirred. All was wrapped in silence.

Dancing flames cast moving images through his eyelids and these merged with moving images of light and shadow in his mind. Dream state is the free realm where the mind wanders not in ordered paths as the traveler will, but moves through scenes springing out of unconscious depths, those fountains of the deeper consciousness that wakeful states cannot command.

He woke in a pit house with a hard-packed dirt floor and circular stone walls. The air was stifling, smothering, fetid with centuries of smoldering fires and sweating bodies. It mingled with the scents of herbs and pollens, scorched grains, barks and oils and feathers.

His mind reeled. He was a dancer, his head low, his painted chest heaving with gasping exertion, his knees thrusting high while his moccasin-clad feet pounded into the hard-packed clay floor. The throbbing, hypnotic beat of the drums drove him forward and back, his steps spinning in tight circles around the fire. He spun past a naked figure hanging from leather thongs. The man's arms and wrists were tied up to a peeled pole frame, lashed to twin posts between the fire circle and sacred skin paintings hanging from the kiva wall. As the dancers passed the man they spun and shook their feathered fists and shell rattles in his staring face, to ward away hostile spirits. His delirious eyes stared fixedly, glazed, in the flashing light and shadows.

The crashing drums and keening, ululating, ear-splitting chants rose in pitch and volume, then fell to unearthly, muttering growls. A shaman stepped forth. The dancers dove out through a low exit hole. The shaman strode forward to look into the man's face. He stared deeply into his eyes, probing the man's soul.

In a moment of choking, gasping terror Graydon found himself falling into the shaman's eyes, plunging into the blackness of their depths. Darkness swallowed him as he fell, and at that moment he felt the ripping pain of a black stone dagger, its edges scalloped and sharper than any surgeon's scalpel. It slashed into his chest and sawed downward, splitting him open to expose his furiously beating heart. In a flood of pain and horror, his eyes blurred. A bright point of light opened in his eyes, expanding, forcing him to look up from the torn opening in his chest. The light burst into a night hawk that flung itself at him, flaring up in a whistling rush of wings, fluttering inches from his face.

The shaman dropped his bloodied obsidian dagger into a shallow clay basin, its steaming water crusted with herbs and pollen. It sank down through the matted crust to lay submerged, the blood washing away. He reached into a pouch at his side, drew forth a pinch of shredded tobacco fragments, sacred wild tobacco native to the pueblo canyon region. Chanting tonelessly, the shaman bowed to the four quarters of the world, then flung his head back and in a shrill voice, sang imprecations to protective spirits. He brought the pinch of tobacco dust up to his face and blew it into the gaping wound. At that moment the whistling rush of the diving night hawk's wings and its shrill cry erupted in the space between them, and the man's head was thrown back, his mouth wrenched open and his lungs filled with a gasp. The obscene, gaping wound in his chest was gone, as if never there. His heart pulsed, pounded, beating as steadily as the drums had throbbed before.

Graydon's eyes gazed out through the shaman's eyes, through a misty haze of dancing kachina figures in a landscape of canyon walls and depths. He felt his face breaking into a satisfied smile. With astonishment he recognized the naked man bound to the poles. It was the white man who had killed the attackers and saved the children. He was different now. His eyes blazed a brilliant sapphire blue, deep set and piercing in their focus like the far-seeing gaze of a hawk, and his hair, which had been short and dark, was long, to his shoulders. It hung in long, alternating bands of black and gray.