Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged (5 page)

Wearing
deerskin pants, a pelt slung serape-style over one shoulder, and an array of
interesting teeth and feathers strung around her neck and down to her waist
where a knife with a bone handle was stashed in a scabbard hanging off a
braided leather belt, she reminded me that I hadn't seen anyone dressed like
that since Scout Cloud Lee appeared on
Survivor.
The woman in our
doorway was pretty hot looking in a woodsy kind of way, charismatically exotic
due in part to the long, straight Cher-hair.

"You
knew to arrive early," the Indian woman said.

"I
felt you calling me," Callie said softly.

That
remark stuck in my head like an arrow as I stepped forward to ask who she was
and what she wanted, but Callie added, "How have you been?"

The
long figure seemed riveted on her.

"There
are problems..." She glanced at me and became silent.

"Come
inside," Callie said, and I felt as if I wasn't even in the room with the
two of them.

"You
will come to the ceremony tonight," the woman stated rather than asked,
not offering to take off her pelt, which I assumed was the equivalent of an
overcoat, but then who knew.

"I..."
Callie paused, uncomfortable, and for the first time they both looked back at
me, the Indian woman not moving or offering to introduce herself, Callie
finally taking charge of the formalities.

"Teague."
She waved me forward. "This is the woman whose cabin we're renting—my spiritual
teacher from summers ago. She is Manaba, some call her Shaman. She is a
spiritual healer trained under her powerful grandmother, Eyota, a Navajo
elder."

Manaba
nodded and I did the same. She took her eyes from me, as if not only through
with me for the moment, but perhaps for an entire lifetime, and locked her gaze
back on Callie.

"Tonight,
dusk, the ceremonial ground."

Callie
pursed her lips almost imperceptibly, seeming to indicate she understood.

Pausing
as if wanting to say something more, Manaba suddenly changed her mind, turned,
and left.

Callie
stayed at the door with her back to me for a good ten seconds, the energy
between them obvious from the way their eyes engaged and their bodies threw off
electricity. To say I didn't like what I saw was an understatement. I didn't
like anyone but me sending sparks Callie's way.

"You
have a connection with Barrett," she said, not bothering to face me,
seeming to reside in my head these days, refuting what I had never said aloud.

It’s
fine for me to have a connection with Barrett because it means nothing, but I
don't want you having a relationship with anyone but me.

"Male
view," she said quietly about my thoughts.

"So
tell me more about LaBamba," I said, intentionally twisting her name.

"Manaba.
It's Navajo, meaning 'Returns to War.'"

"She's
going to have war alright if she keeps looking at you like that." I made a
mental note that the shaman wasn't getting near Callie.

“So
what did she
teach?"
I asked casually, instead of what I really
wanted to know—namely why the fuck Pocahontas was staring at my lover as if she
were corn pudding.

"Energy
flow and creating a balance between the land and its people. She's unique, like
the Berdache, transvestite males valued as spiritual leaders and recognized for
their wisdom and nurturing."

"Manaba
is a transvestite?"

"Teague,
do you always have to snatch key words out of our conversations and create your
own meaning, or could you listen to the entire paragraph?"

"Sorry,
not trained in paragraphs, proceed."

"Manaba
is not a transvestite, to my knowledge," Callie said, clearly trying to
regain her composure. "Navajo Berdache tradition was made up of people who
were both male and female by nature, and they were awarded an elevated status
in their people's culture. We don't know very much about Native American
lesbian culture, but I was making the point that with Manaba's talent and the
respect her people have for her, she might be
likened
to the
Berdache."

"Oh,"
I said, slightly hurt by her criticism. "So how did you meet the
shaman?"

"I
attended a workshop on Navajo culture, and a young Native American woman told
me about Manaba and introduced me to her. I spent time studying under
her."

"Literally?"
I couldn't keep the snide tone out of my voice.

"Why
don't we make a pact not to quiz each other about our sexual past?"

"So
your past with her was sexual?" My ears were getting hot and I was
instantly jealous.

"Let's
enjoy the present." Callie kissed me so impulsively she knocked the
attitude right out of me, a wanton, feral kiss that made me grateful for
whatever had made her this sexual in the present.

Nonetheless,
I was suspicious of the timing: was she really this hot for me, or had seeing
Manaba made her hot and I happened to be handy, or was she faking hot like a
red herring to get my mind off the idea of her being with Manaba? Having
personally done all three of those things in other relationships, I was on the
lookout for them, despite being aware that the guilty almost always accuse the
innocent.

About
the time I decided to erase the brain cells of my mental blackboard and focus
on lovemaking with Callie, she pulled back. "You need to start writing.
That's what this trip is all about. You have deadlines."

"We
could continue this in the bedroom and then I could write."

"Sexual
tension will make your writing better."

"Then
I should be Hemingway," I groaned, pulled away reluctantly, and headed for
the computer. Accessing my documents I found the file entitled
The Coming
Out of Mrs. Carmichael
and began typing the opening scene where Angelique,
the young novice, is on her knees confessing her sin of sexual desire.

She
tells the priest she knows it's not right and maybe it's because she's away
from home and lonely, and she intends, before God, to spend more time at her
work, counseling those who need to find salvation, and less time contemplating
foolish thoughts. The priest tells her she has sinned, but God will forgive all
sin confessed with a true heart, and he gives her a penance of fifty Hail
Marys.

The
novice crosses herself and leaves the chapel, nearly colliding with a woman
fifteen years her senior, looking frail and tired, but beautiful beneath the
scarf tied around her head. The woman, her taut, anxious expression indicating
she is searching for something, asks the novice to help her, saying her mother
has sent her to get counseling because she has an ongoing problem with her
husband—she doesn't want to satisfy his needs.

It
was dusk before I looked up from the computer and saw Callie lounging on the
couch staring at me, Elmo stretched out beside her, having taken my place. His
big jowls on her clean shirt, a fact she'd chosen to ignore, demonstrated her
love for the lightly snoring hound. I ran my hands through my hair and smiled
at her.

"Good
start," I said of my efforts and read her several pages from the
screenplay.

"You
shouldn't have the novice cross herself—it means she's placing a burden on
herself. Crosses carry sadness and—"

"Cal,
she's a mother inferior. She's got to cross herself, it's required," I said
somewhat crossly.

"Whatever."
Callie gave up, not caring about a fictional character burdened by religious
luggage. "You've been writing for hours. How about a break?"

"Depends
on the kind." Stiff and cramped from sitting so long, I got up and went
over to the couch and carefully helped Elmo down, then crawled in beside her.
"Is it an exercise break, or a food break, or..." I rubbed my fingers
across her breasts, "a lovemaking break?"

"It's
a we're-leaving-the-cabin break. I want to take you with me to the ceremony on
the red rocks tonight."

"You
mean with Manaba Sasquatch?"

"Don't
use derogatory terms about women. She doesn't invite many people outside of her
students to the ceremony."

"And
she's remained true to that, since she only invited you and not me."

"She
invited us both."

"No,
she didn't, but that's okay. Let's go." I shrugged, trying to hide the
fact that I was jealous of a woman who looked like she shopped at a tannery and
whose jewelry implied she'd had a head-on collision with a very large bird.

I
placed a dog bone next to Elmo's flattened jowls, pressed wide by the wooden
floor, and whispered, "In case you wake up hungry." I kissed him
good-bye.

Driving
through the red canyons, I marveled at the rock walls' mesmerizing patterns,
colors, and petrified swirls, demonstrating that forces much larger than man
had been at work in heaven's basin for centuries. The wind whispered past the
rock striations that marked a time when the water rose halfway up their stony
faces, and rays from the setting sun hit jagged angles of the cliffs, creating
dramatic shards of shadow and light, a reminder that we were but a grain of
sand in the cosmic picture.

Twenty
minutes south of town, tall rock plateaus, scattered among sage and sand,
beckoned the faithful to red-rock climb. Farther on and a quarter of a mile
down, where nothing lay but a trail of loose red dirt, the true natives were
trekking toward the mesa that bulged out of the orange moonscape ahead of us.

I
parked the car and locked it, taking a bottle of drinking water for us, and we
headed toward the plateau.

"In
the middle of these three mesas is a powerful Indian vortex. Supposedly the
natives climbed the mesas and looked down on the sacred ground below and
offered up their prayers to the gods," Callie said over her shoulder.

"The
climbing part's the killer piece."

"The
energy of this place was so intense that tribes traveled for days to scale the
rocks and worship here, but they wouldn't stay after dark."

"And
we're going up here after dark because...?" I asked nervously.

"Because
we are gods too." Callie smiled at me in her enigmatic way, and for a
moment, staring at her phenomenal shock of blond hair and her exquisitely
carved features, I thought she was a goddess and I was her follower. Much like
the Japanese boy trailing his pretty counterpart at the restaurant, I tagged
along obediently as Callie scampered up the gradual incline.

As
rock became ground and the incline steeper, it was apparent that no path
existed up this rocky ceremonial slope, only tiny footholds carved out by the
shoes of other climbers more skilled than I. After several minutes, I stopped
to breathe and made the mistake of looking down.

"This
is worse than flying! One wrong step and we're toast."

"Always
look up." Her warning held true for much of life, and she extended her
hand. I refused to take it, afraid I would make her lose her balance in the
gathering darkness.

"Keep
your hands on the rocks," I warned. "I'm right behind you."

Moments
later the footpath began to widen and level out, and I relaxed for the
remainder of the walk to a large flat area. A series of medium-sized stones
delineated a circle about forty feet in diameter with a bonfire in the center,
small bundles of what appeared to be herbs lying beside the fire, and a painting
I couldn't quite decipher drawn in the sand.

"I
think this will be a Holyway to restore health, or an Evilway."

"Which
I assume wards off evil, which you don't believe in, so this could be only an
exercise in rock climbing," I muttered as Callie approached the circle and
sat on the outer edge of the wheel facing north and pulled me gently down
beside her.

The
darkness folded in on us and none of the women, most of whom appeared to be
Native American, seemed to feel the need for introductions.

"So
is any food served..." I asked, and she gave me a look that I was pretty
sure said she hoped I was kidding. "Well, how would I know?"

"Breathe
deeply," Callie ordered softly, and I took in three large breaths, which
relaxed me to the point of yawning.

I
was able to gaze over the northern vista and marvel at what I was seeing. The
darkness removed all illusion of depth, erasing the valley below and pulling
the white clouds through the sky as if on strings, making them almost appear
eye level, revealing the world according to eagles. The sky seemed as close as
an old friend, the night like a soft black blanket on my shoulders, and the
heat from the fire a mother's loving arms. In that moment, I saw and embraced
the night sky the Native Americans knew.

A
rhythmic drumbeat began, and a sound equivalent in pitch and texture to a
hundred rattles filled the air while the women chanted what sounded like a
blessing. Their voices rose and fell amid the roar and crackle of the fire, the
wind shifted, and a wide veil of smoke drifted in our direction, creating
strange images. The north wind caught the smoke and made it look like a huge
bear rushing at me; then a horizontal gust strung the smoke out like taffy into
an ephemeral band that looked like a flowing stream, and finally a new puff of
smoke behind it and a wolf's head emerged—kaleidoscopic desert imagery.