Duke turned off the engine, then reached over to the passenger side and opened the glove box. Palmer saw a thin beam of light and heard the rustling of paper as Duke grasped a small black flashlight. He clicked it on. The beam flicked along the bench seat and then moved to the floor where it illuminated dirt and a cracked floor mat. “I don’t see your phone, sir. You wanna try?”
Duke handed him the light. Palmer opened the door and shone the beam along the side between the seat and the door and along the floor and under the seat. No phone, but he found a small silver earring and handed it to Duke along with the flashlight. The Paiute had the rifle in his right hand, barrel pointed to the ground.
“Mother’s been missin’ that. She’s waiting to meet you, sir. Let’s go on in. I’m sure sorry about that telephone, but it don’t work good out here anyways.”
Duke was shorter and a bit younger than Palmer had assumed. He moved fluidly, the strands of red yarn tied to the end of each gray braid swaying. As they walked toward the house, Palmer noticed a trailer, or maybe it was an RV, parked away from the dwelling. Stepping into the house was a journey back in time. Even in the dim light, Palmer noticed that the little home swelled with handcrafted touches, from the stone floors to the wooden furniture to the baskets, weavings, and pottery. A large drum, its hide top well used, sat in a corner beneath a curtained window. He inhaled the subtle spice of cedar drifting up from the fire in the large black stove that stood in the middle of the room.
The house reminded him of other Indian homes, modest on the outside, rich with tradition, family, and memories inside.
An elderly woman, a smaller, rounder, more stooped version of Duke, acknowledged his presence with a sober nod and wordlessly offered him a place at the wooden table. Spread out before him, Palmer saw a yellowed map, hand-drawn and elegantly illustrated, like no map he had ever seen before.
“This is what we needed you to come look at.” Duke leaned the gun against the wall and joined Palmer at the table. “Mother wanted you to see this now so you will understand why nothing can be built here.” He moved his hand to cast a shadow over a section of the map where, Palmer speculated, the Colorado River and the Little Colorado came together. The spot sat at the map’s center.
Palmer stood for a better look and studied the map for a long time, admiring the depiction of mountains, rivers, canyon walls, bears, elk, deer, and mountain lions. “It’s beautiful. Can you help me understand what I’m seeing?”
The old woman spoke for the first time. “You are Navajo?”
“I am.”
She settled into the stuffed armchair and arranged the pink blanket over her lap. “I will tell you.” Palmer knew a story awaited him.
Her English, even more than her son’s, had a slow, lilting, songlike rhythm. She started with a story of the love of a Paiute leader for his wife, a woman who died too soon. The profound depth of the leader’s grief stirred the heart of the God Taavotz. Taavotz promised to show the leader that his wife was happy in the world of spirits, but only if he could put his grief aside during their journey.
The old woman stopped speaking and looked at Palmer. Then she held her hand over a place on the map, a spot near the center marked with a graceful golden swirl. “This is where they came. Does your heart want to hear more?”
Palmer had listened to stories like this before, elaborate tales of sites so sacred that their existence benefited not only the people who knew their history, but everyone on the planet. He had never seen a map like the one on the table, which made the story more concrete. The map looked as though several Holy People had created it over a long span of time. “Please go on. I am honored that you would tell me this story.”
“Because Taavotz is a strong, strong god, he forged a trail in solid rock, a deep path through the holy mountain that guarded the spirit world. The leader followed this long, rough road. Then, where the trail met the river, he beheld his wife. She couldn’t see him, but he realized that she lived happily now, free from pain, free from sorrow, free from worry. The leader’s heart lightened and he followed the trail back to his homeland. Then Taavotz poured water into the path as a blessing to the earth and its people. See here?”
The woman moved her hand over the map, along the course of the Little Colorado River, southeast to northwest, stopping at the junction of the Colorado. “Taavotz told the leader to warn the people that the river would swallow them if they tried to visit the spirit world before their time. And so it is.” Palmer heard the tone of her voice darken. “It is wrong to disturb the spirits. Anyone who does this will bring great suffering to the world. The ancestors deserve a happy rest. That way they can send prayers to keep the world safe, prayers for all their children, even for you Navajos. Prayers for everyone. What would happen if they are disturbed? What tragedy will come to us?”
Palmer noticed the tears on her cheeks reflected like gems in the candlelight.
After a while, the woman said, “Our ancestors speak through us now. They ask us to tell you that there are many things, important things, that can’t be measured by reports and computers, by people from Washington or Phoenix. They remind us that there is more to being human than making money. I know you are not Báyóodzin’, not one of our people, but you are an Indian. I hope you understand this in your heart of hearts. In the end, we are all relatives.”
Palmer’s throat felt tight. “You and your son should come to the meeting tomorrow and tell the delegates how you feel.”
The woman shook her head. “We should not speak of such sacred things to outsiders, but we prayed and learned that we should bring you here. That’s why I decided to show you this map and to tell the story.”
Then the woman started to chant, softly at first and then with more power. Duke stood and used the drum to reinforce the rhythm she set. She closed her eyes, and Palmer saw how the Paiute words she sang erased the lines of worry and smoothed her forehead. When she finished, she looked toward Duke and he helped her to rise, then went to the woodpile and stoked the stove. She studied Palmer with her sharp dark eyes. “We, my son and I, are peaceful people; we know that isn’t true of everyone who honors this place and its story. You be brave and be careful.”
Duke said, “Can I help you with anything, Mother, before we go?”
The woman shook her head and then turned again to Palmer. “Do your best to save this sacred place.”
Palmer shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Duke to the truck. The chalky wisp of a moon and an abundance of icy stars shown in the deep black sky. He heard the music of a coyote in the still, frigid air. Ma’ii, the wise trickster, challenging him to make sense of what he’d just experienced.
Palmer said, “Where did that beautiful map come from?”
“No one alive today can remember that far back. It’s a treasure, and my mother is the one who tends to it. That’s about what I know.”