The sun shone brightly in the sky. Its heavy rays pummeled the dry 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, leaning against the crag of the ocher mesa that towered high above him. With his eyes closed, he breathed in tobacco smoke from a long, crooked pipe he held in his left hand. With his right, 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. 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 at 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 or cradling babies as they breastfed them; men were busy making arrows, mending bows, sharpening spears, and shaping clay pots. The lonely mountain range on the horizon breathed an occasional cool breeze that the village welcomed. The sun was still high when the shaman set aside his pipe and opened his eyes. His dry, wrinkled face was deep brown, with three bright red stripes painted on each cheek. Save for a few silver strands, his hair was jet-black, held back from his face by a bright woven band. The shaman’s gaze seemed to reach beyond the village, his mind focused on something known only to him. Gradually his gaze settled on a young girl scooping clay from a large mud puddle, a newborn baby nestled in a pouch on her back. He searched for other village girls; too few of them had children this year. The winter had been drier than usual, yet the summer promised to be as scorching as ever, and the past few moons had been 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 year. Will there be enough to feed the people through the winter? This was what the chief wanted to know, and what the shaman pondered as he smoked his third pipe. His body reeked of tobacco, and his eyes were already watering from the smoke. He did not have the answer yet; the unusual silence of the spirits troubled him. In past moons, the shaman had always had answers for the chief after the second or third pipe, but this time, after the third, the spirits were still silent.
The shaman looked at the village huts. Smoke was rising through some of their straw roofs, but not as many huts were puffing smoke today as he remembered from previous years. The village well still held water, but the bucket had to be lowered deeper to find it, much deeper than before. Chief Crow had to ration it now, spoiling the hopes of the claymakers. Watering maize was more important than making clay; new pots and mud bricks would have to wait. Newborns were few this year, and stillbirths were many. Ill omens, thought the shaman. Too many this moon…
Just as the shaman was about to light his fourth pipe—something 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 sunlight blazing through his feathered war bonnet. For a moment it seemed to the shaman that the chief’s head was alight with a fiery nimbus. A good sign, thought the 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 with his legs crossed. “Tell me, what did you learn from the spirits?”
The shaman could strike no spark from his 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?” Exasperation seeped from the chief like sweat. “Didn’t we do what the spirits willed us to? 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 the 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 had always turned out all right: the rain came, the maize grew tall and strong, and the village prospered, its people growing in number. 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 Eagle sat. A sunshadow. The chief used the sunshadow to look at the shaman and interpret his words. He could tell by its glow whether they 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 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 failed to give him an answer, he was still the chief and would decide on his own, without the help of the spirits. It was not too late for the village to move. The Hopi frequently saw flashes of lightning and heard the roar of thunder from beyond the southern mountain range, yet somehow the dark skies were hesitant to move past it 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 had grown used to this place. It was pleasant and familiar; it was their home. Yet if it did not rain soon, they would have to move and make another home on the other side of the range.
Chief Crow was about to announce his decision when the shaman spoke: “I want to smoke another pipe, chief. Maybe the spirits will answer us this time. I still have enough tobacco left for one more pipe, Crow. Let me call upon the spirits one more time. Perhaps they will make themselves known.” From the look in the shaman’s eyes, Crow understood that he was not asking for permission, and Crow knew he did not owe Eagle an explanation either. Each had his own business in the tribe. If the spirits stayed silent and the rain did not come soon, he would command his people to move, and that was what they would do. The shaman could stay if he wanted, for the chief did not command the shaman.
Eagle leaned back against the cliff, his pipe alive with smoke. It seemed he had already forgotten about Crow, his eyes tightly shut and his mind 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, for 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 onto 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 on 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 the worry out of his voice. The shaman’s gaze was unblinking and seemed to reach beyond Crow’s face, as if he were seeing ghosts. This was his usual look, his usual stare, yet 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 could the chief 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 the chief but through him.
“Take me to the mud puddle now, chief,” the shaman repeated, his blind stare searching for the skin covering the entrance to the hut. Crow realized that Eagle was completely blind now. How did he even find his way to my hut? he thought. He had seen the shaman’s eyes grow duller day by day, but until now he had been sure Eagle could still see him, perhaps not as clearly as before. He had certainly seen Eagle squint at the sun during his visits. That was why the chief had used his body and his feathers to cast a shadow over the shaman, shielding him from the blistering sun. Perhaps he would no longer need to do that. I wonder if Eagle can see the spirits with his eyes open, thought Crow. He took the shaman by the hand and led 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, her baby still nestled against her back.
“Scoop the water out of the puddle, girl,” ordered the shaman, wading into the mud. His feet made sucking sounds with every step. “Scoop the water now!” he repeated, and the girl grabbed a pot and began to drain 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 darker than that of the other Hopi, his back humped and crooked. He brought huge clay pails, which Feather filled. It took them the better part of the day to drain enough water from the puddle. All this time, the shaman walked through it, gauging the thickness of the mud by the sound of his steps and the suction on his feet as he pulled them free.
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 push and shape the mud into parallel rows, each 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 Hag to sew the hides together 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 into one huge patchwork blanket. There were not enough hides in the village, so he offered her the rags from the door of his hut.
Hag sewed through the night; the moon was bright enough for her to see the needle. Feather helped, her baby sleeping on her back. By morning the patched blanket was complete, and the shaman stretched it over the mud puddle, driving sticks into the ground 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.
For 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 weigh down each corner of the cover with heavy stones to hide his work from their prying eyes. The blind man did not need light to work the mud, and the clay yielded 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 four or five paces long and one to two paces wide. He moved on his knees, his hands and fingers working with a 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, rustling the feathers on his bonnet.
“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 send a great drought upon the Hopi village. He chose his group and led them to the mud pit. It was already dark, and Feather lit a fire by the pit. The goat herders had 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, broad-shouldered warrior, toward the shaman. The shaman reached out to feel the warrior; his fingers were his eyes now. Satisfied, he seized the warrior’s left hand and drove his flint knife into the palm. The motion was swift for a man of his age, and it caught Hoof off guard. The warrior grunted, blood running freely down his palm. 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, the deep gash still bleeding. Feather wrapped his wound in cloth as the next person walked toward the shaman, who continued his ritual of feeling the person in front of him to make sure the chief had not brought someone old or sickly. He needed the best. Then he swiftly punctured their palm with his flint knife, collecting the blood. Before long, the shaman had everyone’s blood. “Now you, Crow,” he commanded. Crow approached the shaman. Eagle did not need to feel Crow as he had 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 bloody rain into each one. Crow fought the 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 beneath the cover from one clay bed to another, clutching a bloodied milk pot in his hand. He molded each bed into a person, giving it legs, arms, a head, and a torso. Setting the milk pot aside, he used both hands for this work. They were quick and unexpectedly artful as a human likeness emerged from the warm, soft, pliable mud. Occasionally Eagle would pour milk over the clay as he shaped it, especially if it felt dry, but he always left some to pour into the mouth and eyes of each 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 down his face. He found his way to the middle of the mud patch, sat down, and crossed his legs. He gazed around with a blind stare, feeling eerily 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 took up his flint knife and held it aloft. Then, as quickly as he had pierced the hands of the villagers, he slit his own throat. Gurgling hoarsely, he fell to the ground, his blood spilling in a steady stream around the figures he had made. As the shaman took his last muffled breath, his bloody hand rested on the head of the figure nearest him, painting half 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 cover stretched over the mud the previous night was now 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 and bound 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. He counted forty figures standing there, men and women, their skin the color of bronze. The tallest 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 strange sight. The rest of the villagers stood silent, huddling behind the chief, scared. The forty bronze figures led by the tall warrior were too far away for Crow to make out their faces, but he dared not approach any 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 from the awestruck and confused Hopi. Crow stared at the base of the Red Mesa, where the vision of forty red people had just faded before his eyes. It seemed to him that he saw a faint trace of red dust blowing from the top of the mesa toward the southern mountain range. 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 danced over the mountains, and sudden gusts of wind raised clouds of dust and threw them into Chief Crow’s face.
“It is going to rain,” he said, looking at the distant mountains. The last time it had rained twice in a summer was fifty years ago, when the Hopi settled at the Red Mesa. Crow turned back to his people, 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.