Moon Lily: (a novel)

By Susan Lang

Ruth Farley is a stubbornly independent, free-spirited woman who homesteaded a piece of land at Glory Springs, deep in a beautiful, remote canyon in the Southern California Mojave Desert. At the end of the 1930s she is still there, raising her two children and struggling to preserve her solitude. But the world is intruding. Her Indian friend Martha has been arrested for a murder she didn’t commit, and Ruth must join the Yuiatei tribe in trying to free her. In this final volume of Susan Lang’s Ruth Farley trilogy, Ruth discovers the limits of her autonomy and struggles to make peace with her painful past. As the story comes to a dramatic conclusion and the world descends into the madness of another war, Ruth finally understands that she is inextricably part of the human community and that her hard-won independence will not be sacrificed if she accepts and cherishes the bonds of love and friendship. Ruth Farley is one of the most memorable characters in recent fiction, a perplexing, sometimes exasperating, and utterly sympathetic modern woman torn between her desire for freedom and her need for love, her determination to live life on her own terms and the pressures that society places on a single woman. In this trilogy of novels, Susan Lang has achieved her place among our best contemporary fiction writers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Nevada Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2008
• ISBN: 9780874177572

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

When her ear caught the low drone of an engine down canyon, Ruth struggled up from her chair and crutched into the cabin to put away her book. Without thinking about it, she skirted that certain afternoon shadow cast by the pinyon bough. She glanced in the mirror above the dresser, running fingers through her dark hair to untangle it. When that didn’t work, she snatched up her brush and gave a few quick strokes that managed to ignite sparks and leave hairs writhing in the air. Oh, why bother, anyway? They weren’t that kind of company. She put down the brush and made one last attempt to smooth her hair.

By the time she hobbled out the door and made her way to the campfire, Maddie and J.B. were leaping over brush and rocks as they ran down the wash to meet the Yuiatei pickup at the bend. She struck a match to the wood and watched her children jump onto the running board when the truck slowed for them. They hopped off again just before the truck came to a halt in her yard. Already Lem’s two kids had scrambled from the pickup bed, and all four youngsters dashed past her into the cabin. Ruth smiled at the excitement generated whenever Lem brought his children. She was disappointed, though, not to see his sister Martha with them. She’d been looking forward to catching up on all the stories they shared.

Thomas nodded as he stepped out of the truck, but one look at his face brought her up. His expression had a strange tightness to it, she thought, watching him bend over the pickup bed to retrieve supplies. She could see that Lem’s heart wasn’t in the smile he gave her, either, as he limped toward her at the campfire. Clearly something was up, but Yuiatei custom required a period of sociability before talking about anything serious. Thomas carried over a box heaped with grapes and set it on the rock beside the fire, then pulled up a camp chair next to Lem, the two of them positioned for the coffee-drinking ritual that began any social visit at Glory Springs. How long would she have to wait to find out, she wondered?

Can we make some of that new Kool-Aid? J.B. shouted from the cabin.

I guess so, Ruth said. "But there’s lik’ii outside the door too." Usually J.B. and Maddie drank only the beverage made from soaked mesquite pods that was once traditional fare at the settlement in Black Canyon. Oh well, she decided, let them celebrate their friends’ visit.

"I wouldn’t mind a cup of that lik’ii," Lem said, "while the coffee’s brewin.’ I miss havin’ lik’ii around these days." His raspy voice always scraped up against Ruth’s sensibilities, as if his pain were still present—though she knew the accident that had caused it and claimed his wife’s life happened years before she met him.

Sure, she said, settling into the camp chair next to the flat boulder that was her secondary outdoor table. Help yourself—cups are on the table rock. I do wish those kids knew what was good for them, though.

"But you did buy that Kool-Aid for them, didn’t you?" Thomas said. Ruth felt her face heat as he picked up a cup and followed Lem over to the mesquite crock, the two of them as opposite in appearance as two men could be—Indian or otherwise—Lem short-haired and pudgy, bent slightly from the ancient accident, and Thomas, tall and graceful in his stride, his long hair falling fluid across his shoulders.

J.B. wanted to try the new grape flavor, she told him. Said it smelled exactly like the purple lupines we saw up at Big Bear.

I don’t suppose grape Kool-Aid will hurt any of them. Certainly not any more than that grape beverage you like to drink occasionally. He looked back over his shoulder at her and tried to grin.

Now her neck burned clear down into her shirt. Ruth studied him as he walked back to his chair. She knew he sometimes worried about her taste for wine—needlessly, since she could hardly afford it anymore—but it wasn’t like him to make such pointed remarks, even in jest.

She refused to take it personally. After all, he’d seen so many of his people succumb to alcohol, especially after the Depression robbed them of the jobs that kept them alive. Modern culture had already made their old ways of life impossible. The sad part was, though, that now that the economy was finally getting better, Yuiatei were still filling in with alcohol.

Even so, that had nothing to do with her own situation; Thomas had told her so himself—more than once, in fact. So what was bothering him then, she wondered?

The tension she’d sensed increased as they sat waiting for the water that took forever to boil. Whatever was wrong had to be serious. Ruth strained to summon some patience. Relieved when water began hissing over the edge of the pot, she lifted herself up from the chair. Using the table rock for balance, she took a step, then let go and took two more.

After months of Thomas’s treatments, she could now put enough weight on her injured leg to stand and pour coffee grounds into the water without falling over. She could even walk short distances without leaning on her crutch. She had to be careful, though; sometimes, when she stepped too quickly on that side, the leg would turn to rubber under her. She felt more secure keeping her crutch beside her to absorb some of the weight if she needed it.

Ruth stirred in the coffee, slid the pot to one side so the grounds would settle, then turned and took a chance that her leg would hold her weight for the steps back to her chair. She wanted Thomas to see her using it. The leg held, barely, just enough so she could reach the arm of her chair. She had bruised it when she tripped over an escaped hen and fell a few days ago at the spring. She had to keep building strength, but she had been afraid to risk another collapse like that, at least while she was alone. She would have to work her leg all the harder during the days Thomas was there.

Once the coffee grounds settled, she stood, took a tentative step toward the coffeepot, then another. The children were disappearing across the wash as she poured. Ruth doubted they’d see them again before sundown and supper.

Impatient with the wait, she blurted out what had been on her mind since they arrived. Is your sister still out picking? she asked Lem, handing him a filled cup. I thought Martha was coming with you. Maybe her question would get the social period started so she could find out what was wrong.

She reached for another cup, but stopped when the men exchanged glances. She stood there staring, didn’t dare ask more. She’d seen looks like that before. When her leg began to buckle, Thomas rose and eased her into her chair.

When he said, She’s in jail, Ruth, such relief washed over her that a little laugh escaped before she could trap it back. It hung glaring in the air as Lem added, For murder. Suddenly nothing made sense. Martha? Murder? How could those words possibly go together?

Forgodsake, what happened?

It was Jackson, Lem explained. He got drunk and went on the warpath again. You know how he is when he gets that way, always talkin’ about gettin’ rid of the Peeled Ones. Those Modajees always talk like that. Only this time he got hold of old One Eye’s rifle and was goin’ to do something about it. Martha tried to take it away from him. That’s when it happened.

You mean she shot him?

Nah, the gun just went off. Guess he got in its way.

But—but—why murder, then?

Lem shrugged, looked at her pointedly.

You know the story, Dlah’da, Thomas said. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if they were on the rez, where everyone knows them. But they were way out past Indio in that picking camp when it happened. A whole different county, where no one knows them. Down there they’re just a couple of drunken Indians. Besides, Jackson’s Modajee relatives were at the camp.

But Martha doesn’t even drink . . .

No one paid any attention to that. That sheriff just took her in. Who knows what those Modajees said about her? It’s a big picking camp, and the Modajees have lots of friends there. The camp is right next to their rez. But even Teske, Mexican, and Japanese pick there these days. Besides, the sheriff remembered Martha and Jackson from the commotion they’d caused the night before. Thomas walked to the fire and poured coffee into a cup, handed it to her.

We heard Martha’d been screamin’ an’ tryin’ to stop him from gettin’ that gun the night before, Lem said. Someone called the law in.

A shiver ran up Ruth’s back when she remembered the sheriff who’d questioned her after Jim’s death. Because Indian Jim had been her lover, the man had viewed her as lower than a prostitute. An Indian woman like Martha might rank even beneath that in his eyes. Surely it wouldn’t be the same sheriff, though. After all, ten years had gone by.

Ruth gulped her coffee, entertaining its burn all the way down. She wished it were whiskey instead. What can we do? Has anyone seen her? Can we?

Thomas shook his head. She needs a lawyer. Without one they’ll probably put her away. We’re all getting some money together.

Of course, I’ll put in, Ruth said. Whatever it takes. Just the thought of giving up any of the money stashed in her dresser drawer sent a hot knife into her intestines. It had cost her the use of her leg to earn it, working in that ridiculous movie. Was that really almost two years ago now? She’d spent those funds frugally this past year, after leaving David Stone and coming back to live in the canyon again. Even the five pennies for Kool-Aid had been a splurge.

Once that money was gone, how in the world would she support herself in Glory Springs—or anywhere else for that matter? Even the option of working at the nursing she despised seemed out of the question now. Whoever heard of a nurse on a crutch? She had a sudden image of herself crawling on one knee down a row of grapes, dragging her bum leg as she went picking with the Yuiatei.

But how could she worry about her finances when Martha was in such danger?

But how will we find a lawyer who’ll defend an Indian woman? Maybe in San Bernardino? We’d better get on the road. Ruth snatched up her crutch, pulled herself from the chair, and started toward the cabin to get the money.

Not today, Dlah’da, Thomas said. It’s too late now. And we think we can get that guy in Banning again.

You know, that Nicholas Ghosh guy who helped us when Jackson broke in and stole the whiskey last year, Lem said. Got ’im off with just a fine. Plus those days in jail. They wanted to put ’im in prison.

Ruth paused, then continued toward the cabin. Too bad. If he’d been in prison, none of this would have happened to Martha, she said. But she’d felt bad for Jackson when it happened. He always seemed like the nicest man—until he had a drink. Then all hell broke loose. The Yuiatei said it was because he was a Modajee—and Modajees prided themselves on being aggressive and warlike, rather than peace-loving like Yuiatei. But she suspected it was mainly the alcohol. She’d seen the same meanness in her mother, Cally, when she drank.

Ruth pulled the shoebox of money out of the drawer, counted out a hundred dollars, swallowed hard when she saw how shallow that left the pile in the box. A hundred dollars equaled months of groceries, since the bulk of her food came from the land around her, what she shot, picked and grew. She might even have to forgo coffee soon. She’d already cut out wine on all but rare occasions, though she missed it dearly. Especially at the moment.

Crutching out to the campfire again—all efforts to show Thomas that she’d been working her leg now deemed ludicrous—she held the bills out toward him. She wanted to get the money out of her hands so she wouldn’t fret over it. But Thomas shook his head.

Just wait, Dlah’da. Come with us tomorrow. With what we’ve already collected, maybe we won’t need it all.

Lawyers are expensive. Take it. Do you think they’ll let us see her?

Thomas shrugged. We can try. But we’d better hire the lawyer first. They’re not going to let us in unless they know someone’s watching.

Ruth sank into her chair. She pictured Martha kneeling at the na’dai in Black Canyon, singing a grinding song as acorns gave way under her stone, remembered her laughing at Ruth’s first awkward attempts to leach the flour produced from those acorns. Ruth had learned so much from her friend. And they had become even closer after Grandmother Siki died and Ruth injured her leg, as if their grief had bonded them.

After Grandmother’s death, Martha had abandoned the short curly hairstyle she’d adopted from white culture, and let her hair grow long enough to wear in thick braids that hung over her shoulders or looped and fastened to the back of her head. Ruth knew this look wouldn’t endear her to the sheriff and others in the legal system. For years Martha had worn only the clothing fashions of the mainstream culture she’d moved in while she worked at the agency. Then her job had been cut.

And Grandmother Siki’s death had affected Martha differently than it had other Yuiatei. For most it had meant finally abandoning the last of the old ways, as if some center of things had been lost. For Martha it meant honoring the old customs. Ruth knew things had been dissolving before Grandmother Siki’s death too, as the Depression sucked livelihood from the tribe. Whites had long ago taken the land the people needed, the places they went to gather mesquite and acorns, the places they hunted. The tribe had become dependent on jobs, on food and shelter that they now had to buy. Jobs they lost when times got tough for everyone.

But Martha told her that Yuiatei didn’t want to bother with the old customs these days, anyway. And Ruth had seen for herself how the traditional summer ceremonies in Black Canyon had been sparsely attended for the last two years.

She felt a hand press her arm. When she looked up at Thomas, she realized her cheeks were wet. He said nothing, but the tenderness in his face was enough to bolster her. She took in a deep breath, let it out. Lem had left his chair and was already halfway across the wash, on his way to the children’s story place. Suddenly, she wanted to be over there too, acting out the hopes her children had built into the structures there—the miniature Yuiatei settlement and replica of Frontiertown—in the dramas and rituals they played out to change the outcomes of things. But hope couldn’t be forced, and she couldn’t find any in her at the moment. Outside of her world at Glory Springs, everything seemed to be spiraling downward.

Don’t give in to it, Dlah’da, Thomas said. That way it wins—and it’s very strong.

Ruth nodded, drew in a breath at the sound of her Yuiatei name. She loved that name Grandmother Siki had given her, loved the idea of being a Willow Woman, though at the moment she knew her branches had gone barren with winter. She couldn’t define in words what the it Thomas spoke of was, but she felt its effect everywhere. She looked over to find him staring off, his eyes and thoughts far away. The hard granite cliffs on the mountain behind him contrasted with the soft flesh of his face, where two years ago the grizzly had gouged lines the length of one cheek, its claws etching their story in deep streaks of scar.

Ruth rose and made her way to the cabin to finish preparing the pot of vegetables and jerked venison laid out for supper. She was particularly proud of that venison. The buck had come to her—there was no other way to see it—stepped out from behind a scrub oak three weeks ago when she was down around the bend hunting rabbit for dinner. She had raised the .22 and shot the animal between the eyes from about fifteen feet away. Her eyes burned with gratitude, remembering, and she thanked the buck silently once again as she began adding the jerked meat to the pot.

Of course, once she’d shot it, she had to find some way to bring her prize home, and it took hours of struggle and the children’s help to get the carcass dressed out under a nearby pinyon branch and hacked into pieces. Then she brought the Model A down—Lem had rigged the gas pedal so she could drive it—and they hauled all the meat back in the rumble seat. The blood never did come out of the seat completely, no matter how Ruth scrubbed, but that was the price she paid for her gift of food. A small price, considering what the deer paid.

She sighed, remembering the way she used to brazen her way through life before the accident, certain she could do anything she wanted or needed to do—imposing her will everywhere. The injury had forced her to go differently in the world, to negotiate, see what that world itself was offering her of its own accord. She knew now that there were conditions. One of them was not giving in to the darkness that waited to suck people into itself. That was what Thomas meant.

When she had the stew simmering on the campfire and finished milking the goats, Thomas motioned for her. She sat on the ground next to the moon lily plant, while he helped her do leg exercises, moving the leg just beyond its range. Her eyes were drawn to the shadow of the pinyon bough that lurked in the yard in front of her cabin. No matter how many times she told herself it was just her imagination, that dark shape stayed to remind her of what had happened there years ago. Imagination or not, she couldn’t see that tree shadow without seeing in it the spread of Jim’s hair as he lay there dying.

The medicine man stepped in front of her view as he bent to wrap her leg in soft yerba mansa leaves, afterward chanting and sprinkling pollen around her. He stopped occasionally to have her drink from the potion he had prepared. Aware first only of her own turmoil, she kept picturing Martha in a cell somewhere, pictured also the diminished pile of bills in her shoebox.

Gradually, though, the sound of his voice sent her far inside, where her thoughts lost the words they were formed by and floated up like clouds hovering above her. She could feel where the thought clouds had darkened with pain and fear that wanted to pour down on her as despair. Freed from these things, even temporarily, Ruth could focus her attention on her leg, imagine it absorbing the healing power of the leaves and potion, and the words Thomas brought forth into the canyon’s air. When she felt the tingling begin, she imagined herself walking without a limp, then running, with wind flinging out her hair.

The sensation of wind in her hair came on so vividly that it brought back thoughts of her Juniper Blue as she rode him from Frontiertown while making that movie, then of the horse coming down on her, the crushing weight of him. The pregnant clouds rained down, flooding her with melancholy, as if the tree shadow had somehow pulled her into its darkness. All tingling in her leg stopped, along with images of herself running free. She became just a silly, crippled woman sitting on the ground with leaves wrapped around her leg, Thomas just a man chanting words at her that she didn’t understand.

Then something like a voice inside said clearly, Stop, Ruth. Listen, feel the air. Stay with what’s real, Ruth, and she fought the black thoughts with her senses, breathed in the wind she had conjured, opened herself to the sound of the medicine man’s voice again, aware of the way it influenced the air around her. Ruth held fast to the present, and gradually her darkness began to lighten.

CHAPTER TWO

Maddie put the dai rock down and brushed the ground chia seeds into her bowl with a clump of broom plant. She got quiet, listened to the wind singing. The sound of pines and scrub oak, grama grass and Joshuas, all the sharp cliffs on the mountain and piles of rounded rocks in the wash gave shape to the wind’s song. The story changed wherever she went. Here at the canyon’s bottom, its sound was raspy from all the low shrub. Higher on the mountain, the pines gave it a sweet hum. When she sat by the cliffs, the voice hollowed out against the hard rock. Some days, the wind was only a soft whisper everywhere; other days it shouted out as loud as a cougar’s scream, and she could hear oak leaves and pine needles cry out as they ripped away from trees. Sounds told stories even better than words in a book. You had to know how to read them.

She used to think Ruth could hear the wind’s voice too, but now she thought Ruth heard something else. Haa’iit, a dead one. From the mountain Maddie had seen Ruth talk and smile to the air. It started after they came back from living in Los