The Night Visitor Read Free Page B

angels… that’s the last I’ll see of that oddball.
“Well,” she said aloud so God would be sure to hear, “too bad he left in such a hurry… I’d have liked to help that poor soul.” It was with a sense of considerable relief that she closed the window. And stood there. Watching to make sure he was really gone. Daisy realized that she was breathing heavily, as if she’d climbed the long, rocky trail up the talus slope of Three Sisters Mesa.
    The Ute shaman—a member (in moderately good standing) of St. Ignatius Catholic Church—sat down on her bed and said her prayers. She would have kneeled, but her knees were sore. Daisy prayed for some rain—but not enough to flood the canyon. For a mild winter. For the health and prosperity of the People. And for other Native Americans. She prayed for Charlie Moon’s safety. And—almost as an afterthought—she prayed for Scott Parris, the chief of police up at Granite Creek. The white man was Charlie Moon’s best friend. And the broad-shouldered
matukach
was her friend as well. Even though he had once blown a hole through her roof with a twelve-gauge shotgun—a hole big enough to drop a goat through. With men and children, you learned to overlook such foolishness.
    Daisy slid her feet under the covers and pulled the thick quilt to her chin; her head fell upon the pillow. This weary woman, imbued with the hardy spirit of her people—and comforted by the sweet presence of Christ—continued to whisper her prayers.
    Our Father who is in heaven… Great Mysterious One… protect your people… Hail Mary, full of grace… watch over us… He who speaks with words of thunder, hear my voice… though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… your rod and your staff they comfort me… He who makes his home above the mountains, hear me …? Lover of my soul… my cup runneth over… deliver us from evil. Oh yes… help that crazy white man who’s all splattered with mud.
    And she added this observation and advice for the benefitof the omniscient One: “The way I figure it, he’s either crazy or drunk. Or both. So when you send somebody to help him, it’d be best to tell ’em to be careful. At least that’s what
I
think.”
    Finally, the rambling prayer ended. As the moon drifted over
Cañon del Espiritu
, Daisy’s breathing became more regular.
    On a windswept ridge above the shaman’s trailer stands a desiccated corpse. She is a hideous, frightful thing to behold—this aged dancer balanced awkwardly on a misshapen leg… twisted arms raised in mute supplication to darkened heavens.
    Depending upon one’s perspective, she is
    â€¦?
grotesque, twisted hag—standing where a living thing once stood
    â€¦ a
resinous piñon snag—chop her up for kindling wood.
    On this night, the carcass has company. Of a sort.
    Under the starlight shadow of the dead branches, the naked figure sits easily upon his haunches. He rolls the white “egg” in his hand. The shaman has given him a name, and so he is the Magician. But he does not deal in common tricks and illusions.
    He watches the old woman’s home. In an unheard voice that harmonizes with the silent choir of night, he sings to himself. It is a lurid serenade. Of lust. Jealousy. Murder. And urgent business unfinished. A lonely soul’s ballad oft spins a melancholy tale of what has been—this grim ode also foretells what is yet to be.
    When his silent song is ended, the mute singer does not stir. He will by no means depart from this place until the thing is done. And so he waits… for someone who will surely come.
    A child.
    Charlie Moon turned off the paved surface of Route 151 onto Fosset Gulch Road, immediately crossing the narrow bridge over the Piedra. Rain had been scarce, so the river was low.Ankle-deep in places. Looked like you could walk