OK.
I write short fiction.
I also write-- I'm trying to write a novel, too.
I have a short story that just came out not too long ago.
It's not in the anthology that some people here have read.
It's a new story.
And I'd like to read it to you, except that I'm always
hesitant to make audiences sit through a short story being
read out loud.
I read this to an audience at Ellensburg, Washington,
a couple of months ago.
And not too many of them fell asleep.
But I don't know whether you would
be interested in having the short story read to you,
or whether you would rather have more poems.
It's up to you.
Is that what you want to read?
Well-- [LAUGHS]
[INAUDIBLE]
I like my stories.
I just-- as far as reading to a group,
it's just the length that makes me hesitant.
I don't know if--
[INAUDIBLE]
[? It's your ?] [? choice. ?]
OK, we'll try it.
You can politely close your eyes and snuggle down in your chair.
It's all right with me.
This one is called "Lullaby".
This is part 1.
"The sun had gone down, but the snow in the wind
gave off its own light.
It came in thick tufts like new wool washed
before the weaver spins it.
Ayah reached out for it like her babies had,
and she smiled when she remembered
how she had laughed at them.
She was an old woman now, and her life had become memories.
She sat down with her back against
the wide cottonwood tree, feeling the rough bark
on her back bones.
She faced east and listened to the wind and snow
sing a high-pitched Yeibechei song.
Out of the wind, she felt warmer.
She could watch the wide, fluffy snow fill in her tracks
steadily until the direction she had come from was gone.
By the light of the snow, she could
see the dark outline of the big arroyo a few feet away.
She was sitting on the edge of Cebolleta Creek, where
in the springtime, the thin cows would graze on grass already
chewed flat to the ground.
In the wide, deep creek bed where only a trickle of water
flowed in the summer, the skinny cows
would wander, looking for new grass
along winding paths splashed with manure.
Ayah pulled the old army blanket over her head
like a shawl, Jimmie's blanket, the one he had sent to her.
That was a long time ago.
And the green wool was faded, and it
was unraveling on the edges.
She did not want to think about Jimmie,
so she thought about the weaving and the way
her mother had done it, on the tall wooden loom set
into the sand under a tamarack tree for shade.
She could see it clearly.
She had only been a little girl when her grandma gave her
the wooden combs to pull the twigs
and burrs from the raw, freshly-washed wool.
And while she combed the wool, her grandma
sat beside her, spinning a silvery strand of yarn
around the smooth cedar spindle.
Her mother worked at the loom with yarns dyed bright yellow
and red and gold.
She watched them dye the yarn in boiling
black pots full of beeweed petals, juniper
berries, and sage.
The blankets her mother made were soft and woven so tight
that rain rolled off of them like birds' feathers.
Ayah remembered sleeping warm on cold, windy nights, wrapped
in her mother's blankets on the hogan's sandy floor.
The snow drifted now, with a northwest wind hurling it
in gusts.
It drifted up around her black overshoes, old ones
with little metal buckles.
She smiled at the snow which was trying
to cover her little by little.
She could remember when they had no rubber overshoes,
only the high buckskin leggings they wrapped over their elk
hide moccasins.
If the snow was dry or frozen, a person could walk all day
and not get wet.
And in the evenings, the beams of the ceiling
would hang with lengths of pale buckskin leggings,
drying out slowly.
She felt peaceful, remembering.
She didn't feel cold anymore.
Jimmie's blanket seemed warmer than it had ever been,
and she could remember that morning he was born.
She could remember whispering to her mother, who
was sleeping on the other side of the hogan, to tell her
it was time now.
She did not want to wake the others.
The second time she called to her,
her mother stood up and pulled on her shoes.
She knew.
They walked to the old stone hogan together,
Ayah walking a step behind her mother.
She waited alone, learning the rhythms of the pains,
while her mother went to call the old woman to help them.
The morning was already warm, even before dawn,
and Ayah smelled the bee flowers blooming and the young willows
growing at the springs.
She could remember that so clearly.
But his birth merged into the births of the other children,
and to her, it became all the same birth.
They named him for the summer morning,
and in English, they called him Jimmie.
It wasn't like Jimmie died.
He just never came back.
And one day, a dark blue sedan with white writing on its doors
pulled up in front of the boxcar shack
where the rancher let the Indians live.
A man in a khaki uniform trimmed in gold
gave them a yellow piece of paper
and told them that Jimmie was dead.
He said the Army would try to get the body back,
and then it would be shipped to them,
but it wasn't likely because has the helicopter
had burned after it crashed.
All of this was told to Chato because he
could understand English.
She stood inside the doorway, holding the baby,
while Chato listened.
Chato spoke English like a white man, and he spoke Spanish, too.
He was taller than the white man,
and he stood straighter, too.
Chato didn't explain why.
He just told the military man they could
keep the body if they found it.
The white man looked bewildered.
He nodded his head, and he left.
Then Chato looked at her and shook his head.
'God damn,' he said in English, and then he told her,
'Jimmie isn't coming back home anymore.'
And when he spoke, he used the words to speak of the dead.
She didn't cry then, but she hurt inside with anger.
And she mourned him as the years passed.
When a horse fell on Chato and broke his leg,
and the white rancher told them he wouldn't pay Chato
until he could work again, she mourned Jimmie
because he would have worked for his father then.
He would have saddled the big bay horse
and ridden the fence lines each day
with wire cutters and heavy gloves,
fixing the breaks in the barbed wire
and putting the stray cattle back inside again.
She mourned him after the white doctors came
to take Danny and Ella away.
She was at the shack alone that day when they came.
It was back in the days before they hired Navajo women to go
with them as interpreters.
She recognized one of the doctors.
She had seen him at the children's clinic at Cañoncito
about a month before.
They were wearing khaki uniforms,
and they waved papers at her and a black ballpoint pen,
trying to make her understand their English words.
She was frightened by the way they looked at the children
like the lizard watches the fly.
Danny was swinging on the tire swing in the elm
tree behind the rancher's house, and Ella
was toddling around the front door,
dragging the broomstick horse Chato had made for her.
Ayah could see they wanted her to sign the papers,
and Chato had taught her to sign her name.
It was something she was proud of.
She only wanted them to go and to take their eyes away
from her children.
She took the pen from the man without looking at his face,
and she signed the paper in three different places
he pointed to.
She stared at the ground by their feet
and waited for them to leave.
But they stood there and began to point and gesture
at the children.
Danny stopped swinging.
Ayah could see his fear.
She moved suddenly and grabbed Ella into her arms.
The child squirmed, trying to get back to her toys.
Ayah ran with the baby towards Danny.
She screamed for him to run, and then she
grabbed him around the chest and carried him, too.
She ran south into the foothills of juniper trees and black lava
rock.
Behind her, she heard the doctors running.
But they had been taken by surprise,
and the hills became steeper, and the cholla cactus
were thicker.
So they stopped.
When she reached the top of the hill,
she stopped, too, to listen in case
they were circling around her.
But in a few minutes, she heard a car engine start,
and they drove away.
The children had been too surprised
to cry while she ran with them.
Danny was shaking, and Ella's little fingers
were gripping Ayah's blouse.
She stayed up in the hills for the rest of the day,
sitting on a black lava boulder in the sunshine
where she could see for miles all around her.
The sun warmth relaxed her and took the fear and anger away.
She lay back on the rock and watched the sky.
It seemed to her that she could walk into the sky,
stepping through clouds endlessly.
Danny played with little pebbles and stones,
pretending they were birds' eggs, and then little rabbits.
Ella sat at her feet and dropped fistfuls of dirt
into the breeze, watching the dust and particles
of sand intently.
Ayah watched a hawk soar high above them,
dark wings gliding--
hunting, or only watching, she didn't know.
The hawk was patient, and he circled all afternoon
before he disappeared around the high volcanic peak
the Mexicans call Guadalupe.
Late in the afternoon, Ayah looked down
at the gray boxcar shack with the paint all peeled
from the wood.
The stove pipe on the roof was rusted and crooked.
The fire she had built that morning in the oil drum stove
had burned out.
Ella was asleep in her lap now, and Danny sat close to her,
complaining that he was hungry.
He asked when they would go back to the house.
'We'll stay up here until your father comes,' she told him,
'because those white men were chasing [? us.' ?] The boy
remembered then, and he nodded at her silently.
If Jimmie had been there, he could have read those papers
and explained to her what they said.
Ayah would have known, then, never to sign them.
The doctors came back the next day,
and they brought a BIA policeman with them.
They told Chato they had her signature,
and that was all they needed, except for the kids.
She listened to Chato sullenly.
She hated him when he told her it
was the old woman who'd died in the winter, spitting blood.
It was her old grandmother who had given
the children this disease.
'They don't spit blood,' she said coldly.
'The whites lie.'
She held Ella and Danny close to her, ready to run to the hills
again.
'I want a medicine man first,' she said to Chato,
not looking at him.
He shook his head.
'It's too late now.
The policeman is with them.
You signed the paper.'
His voice was gentle.
It was worse than if they had died to lose the children,
and to know that somewhere in a place
called Colorado, in a place full of sick and dying strangers,
her children were without her.
There had been babies that had died soon after they were born,
and one that died before he could walk.
She had carried them herself up to the boulders
and great pieces of cliff that long ago crashed down
from Long Mesa.
She laid them in the crevices of sandstone
and buried them in fine brown sand
with round quartz pebbles that washed down
from the hills in the rain.
She had endured it because they had been with her.
But she could not bear this pain.
She did not sleep for a long time
after they took her children.
She stayed on the hill where they fled the first time,
and she slept rolled up in the blanket Jimmie had sent her.
She carried the pain in her belly,
and it was fed by everything she saw,
the blue sky of their last day together and the dust
and pebbles they played with.
The swing and the elm tree and the broomstick horse
choked life from her.
The pain filled her stomach, and there
was no room for food or for her lungs to fill with air.
The air and the food would have been theirs.
She hated Chato, not because he let the policemen and doctors
put the screaming children in the government car,
but because he had taught her to sign her name.
Because it was like the old ones always told her
about learning their language or any of their ways--
it endangered you.
She slept alone on the hill until the middle of November,
when the first snows came.
Then she made a bed for herself where the children had slept.
She did not lay down beside Chato again until many years
later, when he was sick and shivering
and only her body could keep him warm.
The illness came after the white rancher told
Chato he was too old to work for him anymore,
and Chato and his old woman should be out of the shack
by the next afternoon, because the rancher had
hired new people to work there.
That had satisfied her, to see how
the white man repaid Chato's years of loyalty and work.
All of Chato's fine-sounding English talk
didn't change things."
Part 2.
"It snowed steadily, and the luminous light from the snow
gradually diminished into the darkness.
Somewhere in Cebolleta, a dog barked,
and other village dogs joined with it.
Ayah looked into the direction she had come from,
from the bar where Chato was buying the wine.
Sometimes, he told her to go on ahead and wait,
and then he never came.
And when she finally went back looking for him,
she would find him passed out at the bottom of the wooden steps
to AZ's bar.
All the wine would be gone, and most
of the money, too, from the pale blue
check that came to them once a month in a government envelope.
It was then that she would look at his face and his hands
scarred by the ropes and the barbed wire of all those years.
And she would think, this man is a stranger.
For 40 years, she had smiled at him and cooked his food,
and he remained a stranger.
She stood up again with the snow almost to her knees,
and she walked back to find Chato.
It was hard to walk in the deep snow,
and she felt the air burn in her lungs.
She stopped a short distance from the bar
to rest and readjust the blanket.
But this time, he wasn't waiting for her
at the bottom step with his old Stetson hat pulled down
and his shoulders hunched up in his long wool overcoat.
She was careful not to slip on the wooden steps.
When she pushed the door open, warm air and cigarette smoke
hit her in the face.
She looked around slowly and deliberately in every corner,
in every dark place that the old man might find to sleep.
The bar owner didn't like Indians in there, especially
Navajos, but he let Chato come in
because he could talk Spanish like he was one of them.
The men at the bar stared at her,
and the bartender saw that she left the door wide open.
Snowflakes were flying inside like moths
and melting into a puddle on the oiled wood floor.
He motioned at her to close the door, but she did not see him.
She held herself straight and walked across the room
slowly, searching the room with every step.
The snow in her hair melted, and she
could feel it on her forehead.
At the far corner of the room, she
saw red flames at the mica window of an old stove door.
She looked behind the stove, just to make sure.
The bar got quiet, then, except for the Spanish polka
music playing on the jukebox.
She stood by the stove and shook the snow from her blanket
and held it near the stove to dry.
The wet wool smell reminded her of newborn goats
in early March brought inside to warm near the fire.
She felt calm.
In past years, they would have told her to get out.
But her hair was white now, and her face was wrinkled.
They looked at her like she was a spider crawling slowly
across the room.
They were afraid.
She could feel the fear.
She looked at their faces steadily.
They reminded her of the first time
the white people brought her children back
to her that winter.
Danny had been shy and hid behind the thin white woman
who brought them.
And the baby had not known her until Ayah took her
into her arms, and then Ella had nuzzled close to her,
as she had when she was nursing.
The blonde woman was nervous and kept looking at a dainty gold
watch on her wrist.
She sat on the bench near the small window
and watched the dark snow clouds gather around the mountains.
She was worried about the unpaved road.
She was frightened by what she saw inside, too,
the strips of venison drying on the rope across the ceiling
and the children jabbering excitedly
in a language she did not know.
So they stayed for only a few hours.
Ayah watched the government car disappear down the road,
and she knew that they were already
being weaned away from these lava hills and from this sky.
The last time they came was in early June,
and Ella stared at her the way the men in the bar
were now staring.
Ayah did not try to pick her up.
She smiled at her instead and spoke cheerfully to Danny.
When he tried to answer her, he could not seem to remember,
and he spoke English words with the Navajo.
But he gave her a scrap of paper that he had found somewhere
and carried in his pocket.
It was folded in half.
And shyly, he looked up at her and said it was a bird.
She asked Chato if they were home for good this time.
He spoke to the white woman, and she shook her head.
'How much longer?' he asked.
And she said she didn't know.
But Chato saw how she stared at the boxcar shack.
Ayah turned away then.
She did not say goodbye."
Part 3.
"She felt satisfied that the men in the bar feared her.
Maybe it was her face and the way
she held her mouth with teeth clenched tight,
like there was nothing anyone could do to her now.
She walked north down the road, searching for the old man.
She did this because she had the blanket,
and there would be no place for him
except with her and the blanket and the old adobe
barn near the arroyo.
They always slept there when they came to Cebolleta.
If the money and the wine were gone,
she would be relieved, because then they could go home again,
back to the old hogan with a dirt roof and rock walls
where she herself had been born.
And the next day, the old man could go back
to the few sheep they still had to follow along behind them,
guiding them into dry, sandy arroyos
where sparse grass grew.
She knew he did not like walking behind old ewes
when for many years, he rode big quarter horses
and worked with cattle.
But she wasn't sorry for him.
He should have known all along it would happen.
There had not been enough rain for their garden in five years.
And that was when Chato finally hitched a ride into the town
and brought back brown boxes of rice and sugar
and big tin cans of welfare peaches.
After that, at the first of the month,
they went to see Cebolleta to ask
the postmaster for the check, and then Chato
would go to the bar and cash it.
They did this as they planted the garden every May,
not because anything would survive the summer dust,
but because it was time to do this.
And the journey passed the days that smelled silent and dry
like the caves above the canyon with yellow painted buffaloes
on their walls."
Part 4.
"He was walking along the pavement when she found him.
He did not stop or turn around when he heard her behind him.
She walked beside him, and she noticed
how slowly he moved now.
He smelled strong of wood smoke and urine.
Lately, he had been forgetting.
Sometimes, he called her by his sister's name,
and she had been gone for a long time.
Once, she had found him wandering
on the road back to the white man's ranch,
and she asked him why he was going that way.
He laughed at her and said, 'You know they can't run that ranch
without me.'
And he walked on, determined, limping
on the leg that had been crushed many years before.
Now, he looked at her curiously, as if for the first time.
But he kept shuffling along, moving slowly
along the side of the highway.
His gray hair had grown long and spread out
on the shoulders of the long overcoat.
He wore the old felt hat pulled down over his ears.
His boots were worn out at the toes,
and he had stuffed pieces of an old red shirt in the holes.
The rags made his feet look like little animals up to their ears
in snow.
She laughed at his feet, and the snow
muffled the sound of her laugh.
He stopped and looked at her again.
The wind had quit blowing, and the snow
was falling straight down.
The southeast sky was beginning to clear,
and Ayah could see a star.
'Let's rest a while,' she said to him.
They walked away from the road and up the slope to the giant
boulders that had tumbled down from the red sandrock mesa
throughout the centuries of rainstorms and earth tremors.
In a place where the boulder shut out the wind,
they sat down with their backs against the rock.
She offered half of the blanket to him,
and they sat wrapped together.
The storm passed swiftly.
The clouds moved east.
They were massive and full, crowding together
across the sky.
She watched them with the feeling
of horses, steely, blue-gray horses startled across the sky.
The powerful haunches pushed into the distances,
and the tail hairs streamed white mist behind them.
The sky cleared.
Ayah saw that there was nothing between her and the stars.
The light was crystalline.
There was no shimmer, no distortion through earth haze.
She breathed the clarity of the night sky.
She smelled the purity of the half moon in the stars.
He was lying on his side with his knees pulled up
near his belly for warmth.
His eyes were closed now, and in the light
from the stars and the moon, he looked young again.
She could see it descend out of the night sky,
an icy stillness from the edge of the thin moon.
She recognized the freezing.
It came gradually, sinking snowflake by snowflake,
until the crust was heavy and deep.
It had the strength of the stars in Orion,
and its journey was endless.
Ayah knew that with the wine, he would sleep.
He would not feel it.
She tucked the blanket around him,
remembering how it had been when Ella had been with her.
And she felt the rush so big inside her heart
for the babies.
And she sang the only songs she knew to sing--
she knew to sing for--
and she sang the only song she knew to sing for babies.
She could not remember if she had ever sung it
to her children, but she knew that her grandmother had sung
it, and her mother had sung it.
'The earth is your mother.
She holds you.
The sky is your father.
He protects you.
Sleep, sleep.
Rainbow is your sister.
She loves you.
The winds are your brothers.
They sing to you.
Sleep, sleep.
We are together always.
There never was a time when this was not so.'"
[APPLAUSE]