The sun shone brightly in the sky. Its heavy rays pummeled dried earth like pounding stones, chiseling away at the red rocks of the desert and sculpting them to their liking.
The shaman sat in the shade out of reach of the angry rays, his body leaning against the crag of the ochre mesa that towered high above him. With his eyes closed he breathed in tobacco smoke from a long crooked pipe that he held in his left hand. With his right hand, he scribbled in the sand with a long, dry cornstalk. Strange swirls of shapeless patterns emerged and disappeared in the dust as he drew and erased them without ever opening his eyes to look. Passing eagles soared high in the sky, their silent shadows painting neat streaks across the wasteland beneath.
A few hundred yards from where the shaman was sitting, a small Hopi village bustled with life on the other end of the mesa. Despite the scorching heat of summer, the Hopi were going about their daily business as usual: women were grinding maize, some cradled babies breastfeeding them; men were busy making arrows, mending bows, sharpening spears, and making clay pottery. The lonely mountain range at the horizon breathed an occasional cool breeze that the village welcomed. The sun was still high when the shaman had set aside his pipe and opened his eyes. His dried, wrinkled face was deep brown with three bright red stripes painted on each of his cheeks. Save for a few silver strands, his hair was jet black with a bright woven band holding it back from his face. The shaman’s gaze seemed to peer beyond the village, his mind focused on something known only to him. Gradually his eyesight came into focus and fixed on a young girl scooping clay from a large mud puddle, a newborn baby huddled in a pouch on her back. The shaman’s gaze searched for other village girls; too few of them had children this year. The winter was drier than usual, yet the summer promised to be as scorching as ever, and the past few moons were red and misty, bearing ill omens. The shaman looked at a field to the left of the village: the maize growing there was too feeble for this time of the year. Will there be enough of it to feed the people through the winter? This is what the Chief wanted to know, and this is what the shaman was thinking of, smoking his third pipe. His body reeked of tobacco and his eyes were already watering from smoke. The shaman did not have the answer yet, the unusual silence of the spirits troubled him. All the past moons the shaman had always had answers for the chief after the second or the third pipe, but this time after the third pipe the spirits were silent still.
The shaman looked at the village huts, smoke was rising through straw roofs in some of them. Not as many huts were puffing the smoke today as he had remembered from the previous years. The village well still held water, but the roped bucket had to go deeper to find it, much deeper than before. Chief Crow had to ration it now, spoiling the hopes of claymakers. Watering maize was more important than making clay; new pots and mud bricks would have to wait. Newborns were few this year, and stillborns were many. Ill omens, thought the shaman, Too many this moon…
Just as the shaman was about to light his fourth pipe – this was something that he had never done before – Chief Crow approached him. His gaunt wiry figure cast a short shadow. The shaman looked at the chief, noting the sun blazing through the chief’s feathered war bonnet, its rays glowing. For a moment it looked to the shaman that the chief’s head was alight with a fiery nimbus. A good sign, thought shaman, striking flint as he attempted to light the fourth pipe.
“I do not remember you puffing your tobacco for this long,” said the chief sitting down across from the shaman, his legs crossed, “Tell me, what did you learn from the spirits?”
The spark was not coming to the shaman’s flint, he set it aside and laid down his pipe. “The spirits do not wish to make themselves known, chief,” he replied looking at Crow, his eyes curdled with worry, “The spirits have been mute for the past two moons, Crow, I fear we have angered them”.
“Angered them how Eagle?” The chief’s exasperation trickled over him like the precipitation of his sweat. “Didn’t we do what the spirits willed us? Didn’t we give them enough maize and plenty of our sweet cool water?” Chief Crow was angry now, the shaman could see it in his eyes, although Crow did his best to keep his composure.
“The spirits can change their minds, chief,” the shaman continued unfazed, “They care little about Hopi. They care little about the world of the living. We must be grateful that they answer us at all. We cannot demand their help, chief.”
The chief had heard all of this before, and in the past, everything always turned out to be alright: the rain always came, the maize grew tall and strong, and the village prospered, its people growing in numbers. But not this year. Somehow this year was different.
The chief glanced at the sun and its blazing rays nearly blinded him. He looked away covering his eyes and peered at the shaman, but all he could see was a giant white blob glowing where the shaman sat. A sunshadow. The chief used the sunshadow to look at the shaman to interpret what the shaman was saying. He could tell by the glow of the sunshadow whether the shaman’s words bore good or bad news, but right now the shaman’s words were plain and few, and he did not need the sunshadow to interpret them. Yet it was a custom that he always followed.
“What do I tell my people, Eagle?” Asked Crow. “If the spirits do not wish to make themselves heard, we must find a way ourselves.” The chief was not prepared to give up easily. If the shaman fails to give him an answer, he is still the chief and he will decide on his own without the help of the spirits. It was not too late for the village to move. The Hopi frequently saw the flashes of lightning and heard the roar of thunder from beyond the range of mountains in the south, yet somehow the dark skies were hesitant to move past the southern range this summer. If the rain does not come to the village, the village must come to the rain, the chief always said. The Hopi had lived at the foot of the Red Mesa for more than fifty years now. Crow grew used to this place, it was pleasant and familiar, and it was their home. Yet if it won’t rain soon, they must move and make another home for themselves on the other side of the range.
Chief Crow was about to announce his decision to the shaman when the shaman spoke: “I want to breathe another pipe, chief. Maybe the spirits would answer us this time. I still have enough tobacco left for one more pipe, Crow. Let me call onto the spirits one more time, perhaps they will make themselves known”. By the gaze in the shaman’s eyes, Crow understood that the shaman was not asking for permission, and Crow knew that he did not owe Eagle an explanation either. Each one of them had their own business in the tribe. If the spirits stay silent and the rain does not come soon, he will command his people to move, and this is what they will do. The shaman could stay if he wanted, for the chief did not command the shaman.
Eagle leaned back to the cliff he was sitting under, his pipe alive with smoke. It seemed like he had forgotten about Crow already as his eyes were tightly shut and his mind was elsewhere. The chief adjusted his war bonnet, stood up, and went back to his hut in the center of the village, passing the clay-scooping girl on his way.
The night brought the long-awaited relief: the spirits must have answered the shaman’s prayers, and it rained. It rained long and hard, and the villagers filled every pot and skin they had with rainwater. The clay puddle became a small pond and overflowed, spilling its blood-red molasses on the dirt road leading up to the maize field.
In the morning the chief was surprised to see the shaman at his hut. Usually, it was Crow who came to Eagle as the shaman seldom called the chief. Eagle lived in a shallow cave just outside the village and relied on the villagers to bring him food and water along with their offerings to the spirits. It took a very special occasion for the shaman to come to the village. Something was wrong.
“What is it, Eagle?” the chief stood up, trying to keep a note of worry out of his voice. The shaman’s gaze was unblinking and his stare seemed to peer beyond Crow’s face, as if the shaman was seeing ghosts. However, this was his usual look and his usual stare, but the chief could sense that something was amiss.
Chief Crow was about to repeat the question when the shaman spoke in a low, coarse voice: “The spirits gave us rain, chief, but this rain is not for maize., This rain is for another crop. Take me to the clay puddle.”
Only now the chief could see what was different about the shaman’s look. His eyes were more clouded than usual as if the tobacco smoke from the fourth pipe still whirled in them. The shaman stared unblinkingly, looking not at but rather through the chief.
“Take me to the mud puddle now, chief”, the shaman repeated, his blind stare searching for the skin covering the entrance to the chief’s hut. Crow realized that Eagle was completely blind now. How did he even find his way to my hut? he thought. He could see the shaman’s eyes grow duller by day, but he was sure that the shaman could still see him, perhaps not as clearly as before, but he could certainly see Eagle squint at the sun when Crow came to visit him, and that is why the chief used his body and his feathers to cast a shadow onto the shaman, shading him from the blistering sun. Perhaps he would not need to do it any longer, for the shaman appeared to him totally blind. I wonder if Eagle can see the spirits with his eyes open, thought Crow. He took the shaman by hand and walked him to the mud puddle.
“Bring me the girl”, instructed the shaman. The chief knew which girl Eagle meant, so he summoned Feather. She came quickly with her baby still huddled onto her back.
“Scoop the water out of the puddle, girl,” ordered the shaman wading into the puddle, his feet sucked air every time he pulled them out of the mud to make a new step, “Scoop the water now!” he repeated, and the girl grabbed a pot and proceeded to drain water from the puddle.
“Wait!” the chief stopped her, “I will have Bent Stalk carry the water to the maize field, we need the water”. Bent Stalk was an old field hand with dry skin that was darker than that of the other Hopi, his back humped and crooked. Bent Stalk brought huge clay pails that Feather filled. It took them a better part of the day to dry up the mud puddle sufficiently. The shaman was walking the puddle all this time gauging the thickness of the mud by the sound his steps made and by the suction of mud on his feet when he pulled his foot out to make a step.
Finally, Eagle was satisfied. “Now leave me,” he commanded. It was getting dark, and both Feather and Bent Stalk left him alone in the mud. The shaman dropped to his knees and started to shove and shape the mud in parallel rows, each row about a step wide. “Tell Crow I need hides, many of them, and I need sticks too”, he said to no one in particular, but Crow was standing nearby, watching the shaman at his unusual labor, and he heard the words.
“What do you need the hides and sticks for, Eagle?” the chief asked.
“Tell the Hag to sew the hides and put holes in each corner for the sticks, the mud needs shade, Crow.” The chief summoned Hag and instructed her to sew all the hides they had together in one huge patchwork of a blanket. There were not enough hides in the village, and the chief offered Hag to take the rags from the door of this hut.
Hag was sewing through the night, the moon was bright enough for her to see the needle. Feather was also helping her, her baby sleeping on her back. By morning the patched blanket was complete, and the shaman stretched it over the mud puddle by driving sticks on each side of the pit. For a blind man, he did surprisingly well, although Feather and Hag helped him stretch this makeshift cover over the mud puddle.
The rest of the day Eagle worked in the shade. It was even hotter under the cover, and the clay was baking, yet the villagers could no longer see what the shaman was doing. He had them place heavy stones on each corner of the cover to completely hide his work from their prying eyes. The blind man did not need light to work on his mud, and the clay headed to his deft hands, moist and pliable.
Feeling his way around the clay patch, like some oversized mole, Eagle formed each row of mud into beds of four or five paces long and one to two paces wide. He had to move on his knees, his hands and fingers working with speed and skill one would not have expected from an old man. When the beds were made, the shaman emerged from under the hides and called out to the chief, “Crow! I need blood and clay pots, and pails of goat milk. I need it now, Crow!” He was impatient. The sun was setting and Eagle was in a hurry.
The chief looked surprised. “What do you mean you need blood? Didn’t we sacrifice enough to the spirits?” Crow demanded an answer, his face dark with worry.
“It is not that, chief,” the shaman reassured him calmly, his hands and knees covered in dried mud, his clouded gaze as elusive and mysterious as ever, “We will be slaying no goats today, Crow. Bring me your best men and women, one of each.
These words made Crow even more uneasy, his body shook, feathers on his bonnet making a ruffle.
“I said it is not that, Crow”, the shaman continued sensing the chief’s anger and confusion. “The spirits do not want your villagers, Crow, but I do need their blood.”
Dumbfounded, Crow called the villagers to the totem in front of his hut and announced that the spirits demanded a blood offering and that he needed a warrior, a farmer, a potter, a hidemaker, a herder, and so on. One of each. He had to choose the best or else the spirits would be offended and would send the great drought on to the Hopi village. He picked his litter and walked them to the mud pit. It was dark already, and Feather lit a fire by the pit. The goat herders had already brought milk and were pouring it into clay pots set up in front of the clay patch. The shaman was waiting with a flint knife in his hand.
“Bring them to me, Crow”, he commanded, and the chief prodded Hoof, a tall and broad-shouldered warrior towards the shaman. The shaman reached out to feel the warrior, his fingers were his eyes now. Satisfied, he grabbed the palm of the warrior’s left hand and drove his flint knife into it. The motion was swift for a man of the shaman’s age and it caught Hoof off guard. The warrior grunted, blood running down the palm of his hand profusely. Eagle picked up the first milk pail and let the blood drip into it. When he had enough, he pushed Hoof aside and gestured to the chief. The warrior stepped aside, clutching his left hand, a deep gush still bleeding. Feather wrapped his wound in cloth as the next person walked towards the shaman, who continued his ritual of feeling the person in front of him to make sure that the chief did not bring someone old or sickly as he needed the best. Then he swiftly punctured their palm with a flint knife, collecting the blood. Before long the shaman had the blood of everyone. “Now you, Crow”, he commanded the chief. Crow approached the shaman. Eagle did not need to feel Crow like he felt the others, he knew the man well enough. Instead, he took Crow’s right hand and punctured it with his flint knife. Then holding the chief’s bleeding hand over the clay pots he squeezed drops of the bloody rain in all of them, Crow fought pain every time Eagle squeezed his hand.
Finally, he let go and said, “Go now! All of you, go!” He waved the chief and the rest of them away and disappeared under the hides. The shaman crawled under the cover from one clay bed to another, clutching a bloodied milk pot in his hand. He molded each clay bed into a person, giving it legs, arms, head, and torso. Setting the milk pot aside, the shaman used both of his hands for this purpose. His hands were quick and unexpectedly artful as human likeness emerged from the warm, soft, and pliable mud. Occasionally Eagle would pour milk over clay as he was shaping it, especially if the clay felt dry, but he would always leave some milk to pour into the mouth and eyes of each clay figure he made.
The shaman worked all night and made forty clay figures, his hands, legs, body, and face were entirely covered in mud now. The old man was exhausted, sweat ran heavy across his face. He found his way into the middle of the mud patch, sat down in the center, and crossed his legs. He gazed around with a blind stare feeling eerie calm and satisfied. He could not see them but he could feel their presence in the warm clay around him, his nose full of the smell of goat milk and Hopi blood. The shaman fetched his flint knife, held it up, then as quickly as he had pierced the hands of the other villagers he slit his own throat. Gargling hoarsely he fell to the ground, his blood spilled in a steady stream running around the figures that he had made. As the shaman took his last muffled breath his bloody hand rested on the head of a figure nearest to him, painting half of its face deep red.
When the chief and the Hopi came to the mud puddle in the morning they beheld a strange sight: the hide that was there the previous night, stretched over the mud puddle, was coiled in a neat roll with heavy stones holding it to the ground. The mud puddle was completely empty, the surface of the pit smooth and flat. A lone bundle rested in the middle of the patch, tightly wrapped in hides with thick knotted ropes. It looked strangely familiar to the chief, but the biggest surprise awaited Crow and his people at the far side of the mesa, where the Shaman’s dwelling had been. Standing there he counted forty figures, men and women, their skin was the color of bronze. The tallest figure held a spear, and the right side of his face was dark red. The tall warrior raised his spear, greeting the chief silently. Crow raised his hand in return, trying to comprehend the meaning of the strange and unusual sight. The rest of the villages stood silent, huddling behind the chief, scared. The forty bronze figures led by the tall warrior were far enough to where Crow could not make out their faces, but he dared not to approach closer.
The tall warrior raised his spear again, and then the bronze tribe vanished into the thick morning fog, leaving behind only a loud gasp of the awestruck and confused Hopi. Crow stared at the base of the Red Mesa where the vision of forty red people just faded in front of his eyes, and it seemed to him that he saw a faint trace of red dust blowing in the direction of the southern mountain range from the top of the mesa. The red dust flowed in a thin ghostly band until it disappeared in the morning light.
The sun was shining, yet a dark cloud gathered over the southern ridge again. Bright splashes of lightning were dancing over the mountains, sudden gusts of wind raising clouds of dust in the air and throwing it into the chief Crow’s face.
“It is going to rain”, he said looking at the distant mountains. The last time it rained twice in a summer was fifty years ago when Hopi settled the Red Mesa. Crow turned back to his people who were still crowded behind him, staring in awe and disbelief at the approaching storm. The chief went to the mud pit, remembering the roped bundle. He opened it carefully. Inside was a newborn child, pink-skinned and helpless, with three bright red stripes painted on each of its rosy cheeks.