Ravens When They Cry

By Garth Nielsen

This collection of ten short stories is authored by Garth Nielsen, a writer and an artist, who has spent most of his life living in the deserts and the empty places of the southwest – First, as a child in New Mexico,then, as an adult in Nevada, California, in Utah, Colorado and Arizona.  He has been blessed to know and listen to the wisdom of many traditional Native American elders.  He walks on the hallowed ground of both the Red Road and the Jesus Road, and he has honored and respected both traditions his entire life.

The stories within this book offer glimpses of his life experience, as he traveled across the country, meeting many unique people along the way.  Some he knew well and some shared but a few hours of time with him.  Yet these remembrances have become a part of him, triggering long hours of thought, shaping his mind, directing his life, and coming alive in the pages of this book.

 

The front cover of Ravens When They Cry is a painting by the Author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aj Tz''ib Press
• Release date: Apr 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215404812

Garth Nielsen

This collection of ten short stories is authored by Garth Nielsen, an 84-year-old elder, writer, and artist. He has spent most of his life living in the deserts and the empty places all across the southwest of the US. He has been honored to know and hear the wisdom of many traditional Native American elders, as he walks both the hallowed ground of the Red Road and the Jesus Road. The stories within this book offer glimpses of his life experience, of meeting many unique people along the way.  These remembrances have become part of him, triggering hours of thought, shaping his mind, directing his life, and now, coming alive in the pages of this book. In this time, full of disruption and chaos, his words speak of a long journey, a lifetime seeking guidance, facing complex choices, and listening... to the stillness that dwells in strange and obscure places.  Garth Nielsen’s stories are now offered to you, in the sincere hope that they might bring you a sense of peace... and perhaps, a blessing.

Book preview

To my wife, Barb, thank you for all your work in organizing and editing this book. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Peter, thank you for all the work you’ve done to publish this book.

To Alex, thank you for all your technical skills in helping this book come to fruition.

Jeff, thank you for your photographic skills and for all the adventures we have had over the years.

He gives nutriment to the wild animals and feeds the young ravens when they cry.

-  Psalm 147:9  New Living Translation

INTRODUCTION

THE MYSTERY OF MYTH

I have walked in the deserts of the Great Basin as well as the consuming and searing Sonoran Desert, and what I have discovered engaged my mind at the confluence with my soul: there is no such thing as time as we know it.  The concept of time is a myth.

I learned this gradually, trying to come to grips with the obscurity of my life.  It was the desert that prevailed with answers for me.  The desert contains legends that hang and dance as quivering mirages that summon with beckoning fingers.  The myths are everywhere, looming large, appearing on the horizon, holding all that the desert has become.

The dry wind whispered and spoke of meaning and importance in my ears.  Over and over, like a turning wheel, the word time revolved within my mind with its meaning and importance to me.  It spoke of people passing through and becoming a part of itself.  The word became a passage through itself, a measure of the landscape around me.

The desert has order.  Thus, along with the sun and moon, the myths cut trails deeply into the land and narratives are realized.  Myths have made it so.  They define the land and time itself.

There is a secret knowledge hidden within the legends that encompasses all that is the desert.  To discover the myths of the desert is to discover within yourself an element of antiquity that resonates and touches something deep within.  It murmurs to the senses – you are not alone – you are watched by unseen eyes.  Before you is a vision, into a world far more complex and captivating, waiting for you to discover it.

As the eyes and ears of your soul become attuned, you come to an understanding of the silent history, and you merge with all around you.  The myths will bind a place prepared within your soul and they will combine with what you have always thought of yourself as being.  The ancient epochs that inhabit the desert will, if you allow them, carry you to the edge of visions and beyond.

One day, you will find a bead, an arrowhead or a pottery shard washed down from who knows where into the dry, dusty arroyo you have been walking in.  You will be changed to your core.  The invisible is waiting and watching.  Suddenly, something as transitory as a wisp of air crystalizes a moment of revelation.  You have established a relationship with the desert.

You have entered the labyrinth of time, the labyrinth of myth.  What you know to be your life will become a part of the landscape of silence.  Through the sagebrush and salt grass, through the creosote and brittle bush, all the way to the circling constellations, the desert now holds secrets imbued with the memory and meaning of who you are and why you are there.  The whole of creation exists within you.  You and the desert are the totality of all that is in space and time.

WHO KNOWS

From some distant radio station, static interrupted the old Bob Wills song, Steel Guitar Rag, as it wandered around the cab of Joseph Brigham Thomas’s beat up old ’71 Chevy pickup. It was a song from years past when everyone whistled, sang, or danced to Texas swing.  An air freshener in the shape of a pine tree hung from the rear-view mirror and seemed to swing in time with the nearly forgotten tune.

The day was hot as hell and sweat dribbled down Joseph’s back as he crested a rise in the road.  A sagging signoff to the right of the road, with large red letters, stated: WHO KNOWS? TWO MILES AHEAD.  A road runner with a limp lizard in its beak hot footed it across the black top, cocked its head and fled into the creosote. 

Driving onto the gravel in front of a building that had once been painted white, another sign sat atop the entrance, with the same large red letters, with the words: WELCOME TO WHO KNOWS.

Stepping from the truck after shutting off the ignition, Joseph slammed the door, which didn’t catch and slowly opened.  Glancing at the door, he turned and climbed the wooden steps of the porch, took a deep breath, and entered the dark interior, letting his eyes adjust. 

From behind a counter cluttered with tourist souvenirs came a loud, Howdy, welcome to Who Knows.  A tall, thin old man with a day’s growth of gray whiskers and a toothy grin, rounded the corner.  Running his hand over his bald head, he continued, How can I help you?

Can I get a cold beer? Joseph asked. 

Sure can.  What’ll it be?

A Coor’s tall boy will do it,

Comin’ right up.

Paying the man, Joseph walked back to the porch and sat down in the shade on a wooden bench that ran the length of the building. 

Dang, it’s hot, he said after the first sip. 

Yeah, it’s hot, alright.  The owner of the establishment now stood at the top of the steps, his hand grasping the upright.  He was gazing out across the parking lot to the highway and the desert beyond, dotted with an occasional saguaro.

Joe turned and looked in the direction of the voice, and then turned back, sipping his beer. 

How’d you come to call this place Who Knows? he asked. 

I should get the answer to that and have it printed on a card to hand out.  Mind if I sit down with you?

It’s your bench.

My old man started this place years ago, before I was born.  He told me many interesting people stopped in now and again.  He said that Tom Mix stopped in once.  That might have been the trip where he was killed, down by Florence, in an auto accident.  You know who Tom Mix was, don’tsha?

Joe nodded his head, finished his beer, set the can beside him, wiped his forehead with his arm and replaced his straw cowboy hat. 

The owner continued talking while he scratched his head.  You never can tell who’s liable to drive by and stop.  Who knows, he said with a chuckle.  I guess my old man had it right.

Joe leaned back against the wall with his legs out before him.  A lone gas pump stood in the gravel yard shimmering in the heated air like a survivor from some lost battalion.

Rising and descending the steps, Joseph crushed the aluminum can and tossed it into the back of the truck.  Entering the cab and slamming the door that didn’t always catch, Joseph waved at the proprietor who now stood in the shade of the porch with both hands on his hips.  He gave a wave, turned, and entered the building.

As the tires of the old ’71 Chevy left the gravel, from the shade of a large saguaro, a figure stepped into the bright sunlight of the cloudless day.  An elderly man with long gray hair to his shoulders that was held in place by a red bandana, waved and then stuck out his thumb.  He was obviously an Indian.

Where you headed? Joseph asked, pulling alongside the man now standing on the shoulder of the road.

Up the road a piece, not far.

Hop in.

Now on the highway, Joseph extended his right hand.  I’m Joe Thomas.  Sure is a hot one.

Ed Bird.  Yeah, it’s hot but I’ve seen hotter, he said, grasping the offered hand.

Where’re you from? Joseph asked as a bug committed suicide on the windshield.

"Over in New Mexico, Pueblo country.

I’m from Moab, Utah.

What’re you doin’ down here?

––––––––

"Both of my folks are passed on to glory and I needed to get away for a while, see some new

country." Both men instinctively felt it was too hot to keep talking and the miles ticked off in silence. 

Joe pulled into the Mid-State Star Truck Stop where a half dozen eighteen wheelers stood idling

breathing like huge beasts that had just finished a race.  There were more out of state license plates than Arizona locals in the parking lot when Joe pulled up to an unoccupied gas pump.  After filling the tank, he leaned on the window frame and jumped back.

Dang, that’s hot!  Let’s get a bite to eat.

"Joe Thomas and Ed Bird sat in a booth waiting to be acknowledged by the waitresses who hurried through the room. 

I’m obliged for your kindness. Ed said, staring out the window as an eighteen-wheeler slowly left the parking lot, anticipating the next race.

No problem, Joe said, downing the ice water that a waitress had placed on the table when they sat down.

After a lunch of hamburgers, fries, coffee and cherry pie alamode, back on the road, Ed turned to Joe with a grin.  When we was eatin’, I noticed you had coffee.  Now, you told me you and your folks have been up there in Utah for a while.  My guess is, you’re a Mormon.  I hear Mormons don’t drink coffee.

I’ve let a lot of things slip.  I only hope the church won’t hold it against me.

Wouldn’t you say that’s between you and the Almighty.

Amen.  Joe smiled and thought of the Coor’s tall boy.

By the way, Ed asked, where’re you headed?

Thought I’d try ‘n find some work up in Vegas.

Shaking his head, Ed said, I’d recommend you stay away from that hell hole.  I know some things about that town.  Then, pointing at the windshield, he said, We’re comin’ to where I want you to let me off.

Looking in all directions, Joe said, There’s nothin’ around here.  What do you mean?

Just the same, pointing to the left of the road, Ed said, See them trees down yonder?  There’s a house hidden there.  I’ve got friends waitin’.

Joe eased to the side of the road and onto the shoulder.  You want me to drive you down? he asked.

I just as soon you didn’t, Ed said.  I can walk.  Thanks just the same.

Ed lifted the knap sack he had been carrying and placed it on his lap.  He paused and then unzipped it.  He took out a brown paper bag and handed it to Joe, saying: You been mighty kind to this ol’ injun – the ride, the lunch and all.  Take this as a way of sayin’ thanks.

He drew forth from the bag a pot with symbols upon it that identified it as being from the Pueblos of, perhaps, New Mexico.

You don’t owe me anything.  I needed the company and I’m glad I could help.

Zipping the knap sack and stepping out the open door, Ed said, I want you to have it.  Drive safe and thanks again.

Joe watched the old Indian cross the highway and start down the two-rut, dirt track toward the distant trees.  Looking at the pot in his hands, Joe returned it to the bag and placed it in the glove compartment, along with road maps and a well-worn Book of Mormon.

The drive-up Mingus Mountain can and often does test a person’s driving skills, but it is a landscape of pure Arizona.  Joseph Brigham Thomas decided he would forego the trip to the once sanctioned village of Latter-Day Saints that has now become the casino capital of the world and perhaps, not the abode of Satan himself, but surely, a hangout for many of his emissaries. 

A week’s driving has been good, Joe said to himself.  Las Vegas can wait.  Guess I’ll head back home. 

The meandering week-long drive Joe had undertaken had been meant to help him try to clear his mind and come to a decision.  Should he sell the ranch his great grandfather had started way back when, back in the red rock country?  Maybe I should take Ed’s advice and just head on home.  Memories of his childhood floated in his mind—memories of the solitude, beauty and peace of a home place of contentment, with loved ones near at hand.  The loved ones were now gone because of an auto accident caused by a drunk driver. 

His reverie was abruptly shattered by a sheriff’s car, with light bar flashing, almost on his tailgate.  After about ten minutes, a wide place in the road afforded a spot to pull over.  A slightly overweight officer with a toothpick in his mouth, slowly walked up and stood by the open window of Joe’s truck. 

What’s up? Joe asked.

You tell me, the officer responded.  There was a lingering pause.  You know you were speeding, son?  The deputy scrutinized the interior of the truck as he spoke. 

How could I be speeding on this road?  You must be joking.

I clocked you at five over the limit.  And no, I’m not joking.  I don’t need no smart-ass talk, either.

Give me your ticket and I’ll be on my way.

The deputy grinned and spit the toothpick.  With those Utah plates, you’d high tail it back up to your land of milk and honey and you’d more than likely forget all about a ticket.  Am I right?

Joe drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.  I don’t believe this.  What a bunch of ......

The deputy opened the door that didn’t always catch.  I’ll bet you’re gonna say a bunch of road apples.  Out of the truck, now!  He rested his hand on the butt of his pistol.

So you’re gonna arrest me for goin’ five over the limit?

That and your smart ass attitude.  Into the cruiser.

I don’t believe this.

The following morning, Joe was awakened by the same deputy.  The rat-a-tat on the cell bars with a night stick jarred sleep and dreams.  Unlocking the cell doors, the deputy said, Come on, son.  The detective wants a word with you.

I’m not your son, thank God.

I suggest you watch your attitude with Detective Burns.  He don’t take kindly to any lip.

Joe was led down a hall to an interrogation room with a one way window.  He was told to sit down and the door was closed.  Within a few minutes, a large man sporting a gray brush cut entered the room with a folder of papers.  Good morning, Joseph Brigham Thomas.  Welcome to Jerome.  Detective Burns reached out his hand, which Joe then shook. 

Taking the chair across the table, the detective began going through the folder of papers that he had brought with him.  Let’s see, now, he began.  Speeding on Mingus Mountain.  You know, there’ve been more wrecks up there than I can count.  You’re lucky you weren’t one more.

Joe leaned forward, his arms across the table top and his hands clasped as if in an attitude of prayer.  The deputy said I was goin’ five over the limit.  I’m sorry.  You gonna hold me?

That depends on you.  You were a bit mouthy.

Sir, I need to get home.

And that is where?

Moab, Utah.

We did a check on you.  Never had any violations.  Grand County, Utah, says you’re clean.

Detective Burns slid the folder of papers to one side, reached down beside him and laid on the table the paper bag that had been taken from the glove compartment of Joe’s truck.   

What’s this? he asked, looking directly at Joe.

"That’s a pot my great grandfather found way back one day when he was startin’ our families’ ranch.  I’ve been thinkin’ about tryin’ to sell it.  I could use the money.  Both of my folks have passed on and I don’t know whether I want to keep the property. 

Detective Burns removed the pot from the bag and slowly turned it around in his hands.  Then, returning it to the bag, he slid it across the table to where Joe sat.   

We’re going to let you off this time.  Here’s a word of advice.  Watch your mouth when you’re talking to an officer of the law.  We towed your truck.  You’re free to go.

When he slid onto the seat of his truck, Joe could hardly believe his luck.  No speeding ticket and the detective believed the story he’d told him about the pot.  Where did that come from, he asked himself.

Emily Ochoa was employed as a park ranger at Montezuma Castle National Monument.  For five years, both as a tour guide and as a clerk in the visitor’s center, she was always ready with a smile, answering the often asked questions about the historic edifice that clung high on the rock face.  She told visitors of the people who once lived, died or eventually left the area. 

There were no tourists at five o’clock when Emily looked around the visitor’s center.  She walked to the entrance, locked the door and flipped the switch for the lights.  Setting the alarm, she walked to the back door and let herself out.  Locking the door, she walked to her car. The last of the visitors were exiting the parking lot as she stood by her car. 

The drive to her home in the Verde Valley with the window open on this warm evening eased her tired