Shalako's Keep

By Tom Corwin

I followed a side road, passed by it too many times, couldn’t take it anymore. Never learned how to resist two tire tracks arcing over a rise in the distance and disappearing into the wide open high desert. A half hour of turning and bobbing, losing traction, racing to make it through beds of soft sandy soil only to find the end of the road, blocked by downed tree trunks, with nothing ahead but chest high junipers and an a decline into what must have been a lake at one time. It is flat as could be, backed up to a strange looking flat topped mountain a few hundred feet high. Should have given up then but retraced my route, now seeking the mountain instead, and a few miles down the main road, a real one with pavement and everything, I found another set of tracks and followed.
Later that same day, after crossing a dry creek bed, I’m hiking up the side of the mountain finally reaching the top. It is bigger than I thought, could be a mile long, and flat it is. I can see bigger trees in the distance but this section is mostly dried grass and a few little calf-high bushes. A sudden gust of wind threatens to knock me to the ground, and then it becomes a constant whipping of gusts strong enough to make walking a struggle. I come to some sort of opening in the ground, make my way to it and step down in to get out of the wind. Step down? Yes there are steps, a ring of rocks laid out in encircling rows one after another going down. And lying at the rim are artifacts, ceremonial artifacts of feathers and sticks and agave string. The wind is whining through the grasses and bushes, crying. I’m wondering where I am, feeling strange, and decide to take a couple of pictures and leave. As I cross back the wind just stops.
Not long after that trip a story comes to me, and months after while working on the words I discover by accident where I had been, and that the story is based on reality, a reality I did not know of, didn’t know even after the trip to the top. But I felt it, something strong and connected to the earth and the spirit of the place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Corwin
• Release date: Oct 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988467101

Tom Corwin

Raised in the north woods, lived by the sea, toured by submarine, studied the good book, managed facilities, and finally found home in a desert valley between mountains, must have mountains to hike and dry desert air where the horizon opens wide and long.

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SHALAKO'S KEEP

Tom Corwin

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Tom Corwin

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Table of Contents

MIGRATION

Chapter 1 - YANKEE LADY

Chapter 2 - J R SNOW

Chapter 3 - HOT MAIL

Chapter 4 - SAINT JOHNS

Chapter 5 - CHAOS AND CAPRICE

Chapter 6 - POT DOCTOR

Chapter 7 - AGING THE INGENUE

Chapter 8 - JIMSOM WEED

Chapter 9 - CHAOS CONTINUED

THE FLOCK

Chapter 10 - DEREGULATION JAKE

Chapter 11 - DOC'S ARRIVAL

Chapter 12 - HOLE IN THE GROUND

Chapter 13 - THE SEARCH

Chapter 14 - JIMMY'S JOURNEY

Chapter 15 - AQUARIUS RISING

Chapter 16 - THE RETURN

Chapter 17 - THE EXPLANATION

Chapter 18 - THE CALL OF THE MACAW

Chapter 19 - ENLIGHTENMENT

Chapter 20 - INITIATION

Chapter 21 - SAVING THE PAST

Chapter 22 - JIMMY AND JAKE

Chapter 23 - A NEW AGE BEGINS

Chapter 24 - THE TRIBE IS

Chapter 25 - FIGHTING THE DRAGON

Chapter 26 - SUSTAINING CREATION

Chapter 27 - BONK BONK

Chapter 28 - RISING MOON

Hunt Valley, Arizona

He sat on top of the hill, cross-legged in the loose sandy earth between sparse tufts of pale dry grass. Over his right shoulder he could see the upward slope of the land, alternate bands of dried blond grass swales and blue-green juniper ridges that formed the fifty mile-wide skirt on the flanks of the sleeping volcano some called White Mountain. The land in front of him was tilted down toward the northwest and folded into a shallow crease that hid the Little Colorado River. On his right, two raised red ridgelines angled toward the northeast, bent like stick figure legs as if a giant had fallen in mid-stride. At the beginning of each red leg a mesa rose a hundred feet above the earth where the giant's moccasins were when he fell in defeat along the path of the river.

The tale of the horrible giant had always begun with Hom cha' le Ko na', the greeting used only for old days tales, and he was reminded of the confusion in this life—how to reconcile the old stories with the new. And he felt the pang of yearning that the proverbial My child, how have you been passing the days? could still bring to his heart after all these years.

He had come up this hill, a place he had never been before, to seek an answer, hoping there would be an answer to assuage the old longing. But why was the spirit pulling on him when there was no direction? Why the yearning in silence? He wanted something more than just to be reminded of the longing, but the vision in his journeying had not been opened to him; a weathered old butte with water at its foot had appeared. He had waited for more but there had been nothing else. Resigned to more silence he lit a sprig of dried sage to cleanse his prayer stones and put them away. He rose to face each of the four directions with the smudge, and when he had finished he put the fan of feathers back in the leather pouch at his side.

The night air had been very cold and he was looking forward to a sunny sheltered place where he could get his body warm but when he turned to head down the hill something told him to wait. He could not think of why, nor what to do, except to wait—but that was not unusual. The thought came to lie down on the ground, so he did. Directly above him a broad winged airplane floated silently in the sky. It had a tapering stripe of white that ran the length of the solid black wings, but there was no engine, no sound, no motion—it seemed to just float. Then he realized it was a bird. But how could it be? It floated higher than any bird he knew, and yet it appeared to be larger than any other bird. Each of its wings must have been as big as a man. He watched it glide to the northwest, floating high above the giant's feet without a single stroke of the wings, until it was out of sight. Was there such a bird? All the great birds had died....all but one, and the condor was only now being rescued from near extinction.

It must be his answer. Was it really there? No one would believe him if he told them he had seen one, but his visions and revelations were personal and seldom shared anyway. And if it was the answer he sought what would a condor mean? It was a great bird, but not a raptor like eagles, owls, or hawks. It didn't kill anything on its own, just followed trouble and cleaned up afterwards. An ancient form of life had come by to teach him something, had flown directly over him and was still gliding somewhere out there many miles downstream.

He turned and headed down the steep hillside. Around to the east the old truck came into view below him and he noticed that the only thing covering the roof was rust.

MIGRATION

Chapter 1

YANKEE LADY

Rhonda gazed out the window. The steel wheels pounded out a rhythm on the tracks as the train passed through a neighborhood of grand old homes, remnants of the industrial age that had once been symbols of sudden wealth but now knelt on tilted porches in full surrender to decay and disrepair. But she gave no thought to the scene going by.

All she could think about was her homecoming. Things had changed during the three months she had been at Uncle John's. She had changed. There would have to be changes at home too.

Her thoughts about home were like flipping through a book of snapshots, a view of the long cinder driveway, the exposed half-tarred block basement that made the two story house look too tall for its own size, her sister on a broomstick horse behind the house, dad getting into the panel van service truck, mother in the kitchen, and still pictures of the rare family events. She thought maybe there should be more, but she could only bring back the pictures, and a warm feeling about the faces and the place. Strangely she wondered if she really knew these people, and if they knew her. And would they know her now?

In her mind she made a little song to go with the noise of the train: clack-clack, clack-clack you're going back, clack-clack, clack-clack you're going back. It was something she had often done in the past but when she began to rock in her seat she felt a twinge of sadness and stopped the song. The old rhythms didn't offer the same comfort they used to, and she wanted to forget the words.

As the train pulled into the station, Rhonda thought of the little window in her bedroom at home, and the view down Boswell Hill. Of her creaking rocking chair, and talking when she grew tired of the silence. And of teaching her dolls and special friends about the world outside that window, the one she had seldom and little seen.

That's what she had done. Was there more than that?

She didn't know.

The train shuddered, made noises she didn't recognize, and then stopped.

Rhonda could see lots of people in the station.

She shuffled the snapshots in her mind as she moved toward the door, and stepped out of the train.

Rita knew there was more than one way to lose a daughter. Mental illness was one, but even that could become warm and familiar. It was another kind of loss that Rita feared now, since there had been talk of some sort of recovery. She scanned the rush of people coming into the station, searching for the dowdy recluse she knew and loved.

Momma, Momma, over here, Rhonda called, waving her arms in the air.

Mother couldn't miss the tight bright yellow sweater and flame-red too-tight slacks.

Rita recalled when her brother James had suggested the trip to New York. He said there was a specialist that might be able to help Rhonda. Her husband Roy had never agreed with anything James said—but this one time. He sent Rhonda to New York City.

It had been twenty years since the county doctor had brought her home from sixth grade. There was nothing more the small rural school district could do. For many years Roy had not allowed her away from the house. And because he didn't believe the state should take care of family problems, or that the doctors knew much about anything at all no one had dared to suggest putting her in a state home.

The family had loved Rhonda as she was; overweight, with her big frame draped in large plaid flannel shirts and unfashionable baggy jeans, and her unruly dishwater-blond hair curled over hunched shoulders. She cloistered herself in her bedroom where she was often found singing and talking to unseen visitors. But Rhonda had always responded to people in a warm and caring way and the few family friends that knew her treated her as a loving child.

In the station Momma and Rhonda reached for each other and embraced. Rita stepped back, tears falling freely from her cheeks, to get another look at Rhonda. The extra weight was gone, her clothes were tight and she looked, well, too good.

Honey, look—look at you, she said.

Oh Momma it was wonderful, Rhonda squealed, in a voice Rita had never heard before. John and Anna helped me so much, and Doctor Steiner made me feel so good, but I missed you and Dad and June.

Nice meeting you Rhonda, a handsome young man called out as he passed by.

It was lovely talking with you dear, an elderly lady said while holding Rhonda's elbow, Best of luck to you.

And you take care of yourself Mrs. Hughes, she replied.

Rita could feel her slipping away.

* * *

At home Rhonda no longer spent quiet days alone. It seemed like everyone they had ever known came around to visit and they all wanted to see her. June said they fawned over her like she was royalty or something. Rita did her best to be nice and still try to get them out of the house before Roy came home in the evenings. He didn't like to have his routine interrupted and a strange car in the driveway when he came home was sure to get an evening off to a bad start.

Rhonda could almost remember the old way, the way things had been before. She got a good feeling when she thought of how the family had gathered together every evening for supper. How her father would take his place at the head of the table and tell tales of angry customers with clogged pipes or stopped-up toilets who didn't want to pay for the repair and how Mother and June would try to make him feel good about the day. But everything had changed and now when Rhonda tried to say something to help make things right it just didn't work anymore.

One evening she wore a fluorescent pink spandex exercise outfit to the supper table. She was beginning to notice how people responded differently to her, how they looked at her now, and she wanted to show off for the family. She had taken a bath, done up her hair, even danced naked in front of the mirror proud of the way she looked. But they acted strange. Nobody said anything really. Mother and June kept busy moving food around on their plates, and not even looking up.

I'm going to get my driver's license, she announced.

How can you do that Honey? Rita asked. You haven't even learned how to drive.

I've been out driving with Gene Summers the last three days, and he says I'm good enough to get my license. She had decided to say nothing about the other stuff they had been doing.

Roy's face flushed red to his wrinkled brow. He looked at Rita, and slid back from the table with a loud scraping of wooden chair legs on worn linoleum.

Goin' t' hell in a hand basket Rita, he said, before disappearing down the stairs into his shop in the basement. It was the strongest language Rita had ever heard him use in the house. She knew it wasn't the driving he was worried about.

Rhonda got a job at the department store in Endicott. She hitchhiked down the hill every morning dressed in new age hippie clothes. Neighbors talked, a few passed her by, but she never waited long for a ride.

She saved her money and bought a faded red pickup truck with a cap over the bed. No one said much to her about it. After two weeks Rita gave in and asked Rhonda about the ever-increasing amount of camping gear in the truck.

I'm going to the Grand Canyon Momma, she said, her eyes focussed as if she could see the high north rim. You know, check it out, and then maybe go to California.

Who you going to go with, Hon', you can't do it by yourself, Rita said, though she doubted that the old ways would hold.

Oh Momma I'll be okay, really it's like not that big a deal.

Rhonda, you can't just go to the canyon, June said. She had acted as the elder, by default, for years, and she spoke in the whining tone she always used when left in charge. It's a national park, you have to pay and reserve a spot, and they don't let you stay there anyway.

Rita couldn't hold herself back. Rhonda you are not going all the way to the Grand Canyon by yourself. Her pitch was rising. It's not safe, and what makes you think that old truck will get that far anyway? You'll end up in a ditch beside some cornfield in Iowa. I just won't hear it.

Momma, I'm not going through Iowa, that's the northern route, not the way to the canyon. Rhonda spoke in her disarmingly gentle way and smiled like she always did. Rita's anger was lost in wonderment. Was it true? And if it was how could her little girl, the one that had been hiding in her room for years, know such things?

* * *

Neighbors, friends, and want-to-be lovers assembled to see her off on the day she left. Some of them understood she was saving them from the slow torture of watching her become full of life. Roy was pleased to see her in blue jeans and a baggy shirt. He actually smiled and waved. Rhonda saw it in the rear view mirror as she drove down the cinder drive for the last time.

Chapter 2

J R SNOW

A pickup truck, sand blasted rust above and below a band around its waist that might once have been sea green paint, led a cloud of dust as it moved in an arc across an open dirt lot and came to a stop at the far edge. When the dirt settled a dark thin man in colorless cotton pants and a matching shirt stepped out and walked toward the flat-roofed squat plaster building where a line of vehicles were parked headfirst against it under a large blank sign board. On the street side of the building two small dark windows set high in the wall stared outward. One framed the building's sole adornment, the word beer in faded red neon script like a bloodshot eye.

He opened the door to a black hole in the late afternoon's brightness and made his way by memory to a stool at the end of the bar.

A faint but discernable murmur flowed through a group on the other side of the room. He could probably identify more than half of them even without seeing them.

The usual Jake? The slowly brightening bartender asked.

Usual? I guess it is. Too long, too long I've been hanging around this soap opera of a town. Usual? Crap! He said.

I'll take that as a yes, the bartender replied.

The truth was that Jacob Snow had been in the high country all of his life. Not that he was one of the landed gentry. That required a heritage and a certain religious affiliation he didn't have. Few of the Saint John's townspeople actually knew of his ancestry, but everyone could see what he wasn't. Out here you were separated like sheep from cows, and at least for the last century the white Mormon settlers had held the upper hand in most everything. Their ancestors had suffered greatly to gain dominance in the area; but Jake was not from that line. Neither did he have the right features to be mistaken for a Mexican descendant. His mother had chosen to live in the harsh country outside of town many years ago. In all that time no one guessed his heritage, or if they had no one had ever said it out loud. They knew he wasn't like them, but they couldn't guess why. It wasn't something folks here would be looking for—there just weren't that many Zuni Hebrews around.

Jake thought about the battle over the countryside that had lasted, really, for more than six centuries. The Shiwi had fought with the Anasazi, cousins most likely though no one really knew, and then they had both been chased away from their common lands by drought, and the Apache, and the Dine'. They had decided to live apart, mostly at peace, until the Spanish came and conquered the people who lived in what they called the seven cities of Cibola. The Tewa and the Shiwi tolerated them for many decades but then they drove them and their priests out—only to be overrun by the Anglo. Still the people persisted. They lived on—the Apache, Navajo, Hopi, the Zuni, and the Tewa pueblos farther north and east, but they were no longer a people unto themselves because the Anglos, like the Spanish before them, thought they had God on their side, that only they knew how to know him. So they had made a point of destroying the supposedly ungodly native societies. As if the creator was hard to find, and revealed herself only to the chosen few. Jake amused himself with the words that could unsettle any traditional religionist.

But about the land: the funny thing was that when you see the land you wonder what all the fuss was about. It appears to be some of the most useless, barren, dry, and rock-strewn landscape anywhere. If it rains at all—and it often doesn't—it rains only in the late summer. Then it comes down so hard that the red topsoil, the stuff generated during centuries of cooperation between plain sand and juniper trees, gets carried away. That's why the little river is called Colorado. The Little Colorado River is some of the fastest moving dirt you will ever see. Jake believed that some of Southern California and all of the Baja California was Arizona land, but being generous folks Arizona didn't want the land back—they'd settle for just the water: the Colorado River water.

Sometimes Jake just couldn't stop his mind from wandering all over the countryside and the centuries. This affliction he had in common with only one other person in town as far as he knew, but that was another story.

It was Friday, he reminded himself, and he was in this particular location, at Tammie's Place, in Saint Johns, Arizona on a mission. Tammie's Place is what they used to call a watering hole though he never could figure out why, being as they are some of the most water-conserving places anywhere.

On this particular Friday idleness and alcohol eventually produced the usual result, the amplification of everyone's worst traits, so after three hours of drinking and arguing about politics, ranching, free grazing, ranchettes, and economic development—of which there was none—everyone was primed for something more exciting.

It became apparent that some of the entertainment was going to be Jake and Johnny Stinson. Johnny had been wheedling Jake since Jake had teased his ego an hour earlier. Jake knew about Johnny taking advantage of some of the older townsfolk by talking them into furnace change-outs after he tested for carbon monoxide and almost always found a problem. Jake had upped the ante by telling Johnny that he had an instrument problem and that he was going to have to help him with it.

Jake knew his reputation with certain locals wasn't very good. Things could be rough if you didn't play along with the gentry. It was easy to guess what any one of the cowboys would do if he thought he had something on him. Some earlier act that Jake had foisted on someone—and the truth was there were many to chose from—would be trotted out for all to see and review through the age-old and locally favored pastime of gossip to get everyone lined up against him before the county sheriff was brought in. Jake was accustomed to living within their reality, but he liked to tease the system, to make an adjustment now and then, to coax it toward equality. It was what being Jake was all about. And he was going help Johnny get calibrated and if the lying furnace salesman didn't change his ways then maybe he would soon disappear from town.

Johnny had voluntarily pickled himself well enough to fulfill the unwritten code of unacceptable behavior. His comments had gotten louder and nastier to the point that although his friends would support him fully they also knew that Jake would have to do something. There was no turning back.

A variety of neo-Neanderthals at the bar egged Johnny on as he slurred his way through a stream of verbal assaults on Jake's character and unwashed soul. He questioned, at the top of his voice, the darkness of Jake's skin and the crook in his nose.

Jake yelled back—the place was too rowdy to communicate any other way at this point—that he was a well-tanned Jew. A few of the witnesses and seconds laughed but for most of them Jake's comment infuriated them all the more. It was a half-truth, and although many of the locals claimed to be descended from the lost tribes of Israel they hadn't developed a loving kindness for their long lost kin.

"Just one more