covering the windows. Up close, it was evident that the place, like most of the others in the area, was in serious disrepair.
The view beyond the trailer was that of a large, sheet-metal barn and a junkyard full of discarded refrigerators, freezers, washing machines, and dryers, all of which were slowly rusting away, their doors hanging open or missing entirely.
As he got out of the truck, George noticed a thin young boy he guessed to be about fifteen or sixteen standing in the doorway and watching him. George was certain the boy was his cousin, Joseph, but he had just been a baby when George had left the reservation. He didn’t see him as a cousin. To George, he was just his aunt’s son. The boy opened the door as he approached. His hands trembled slightly, and his eyes darted about nervously as George walked up. In spite of the cold, a fine sheen of greasy sweat covered the boy’s face. The muscles in his jaw twitched, and he licked his dry, cracked lips incessantly.
George was sure the boy was on crystal meth. On the reservation, addiction among the younger generation had been a big problem for years, and it didn’t appear to be getting any better in spite of the anti-drug programs and frequent busts.
With a dejected sigh, George pushed past the boy. Inside, incense burned in a holder on top of the TV and filled the room with its cloying scent.
“She … she’s in the back room,” the boy stammered.
George stepped through the living room and down the narrow hall to the small bedroom at the back. A curtain of colored beads hung across the doorway. George paused for a moment and then parted the beads and stepped inside. The room was musty and smelled of urine.
His grandmother lay on her back, her eyes closed. Her breathing was faint and shallow. Her brown, wizened skin gave her face the appearance of an apple that had been left in the sun to dry and shrivel. Thin wisps of silvery-white hair spread across the yellowed pillowcase.
“It has been a long time, Little Hawk.” Even after so many years, the voice was still the same. He looked down and found her half-open, rheumy eyes looking up at him.
“It has.”
“Sit.” She lifted her frail arm to point at the wooden chair beside the bed.
George sat down and waited for her to speak.
“I did not know if you would come,” she said.
“I almost didn’t. Why did you call?”
“I know what killed those men at Hungry Horse.”
George remained silent. He knew that when the call had come in, she had professed to have information about the murders, but he had suspected it was just her way of asking him back. He knew that her health was failing and that she refused to be treated by any doctors. She was steadfastly loyal to the old ways of the tribe, clinging to the last remnants of her heritage to the very end. The same headstrong refusal to accept the modern world had kept his mother from going through with the cancer treatments that could have saved her life. After his mother had died, George left the reservation. Today was the first time he had returned in over fifteen years.
“Coyote came to me in a dream,” she said. “He came to tell me the monsters have returned to the mountains.”
George remembered the stories from his youth. Coyote was the wisest of all of the Great Spirit’s creatures, left to watch over all the other animals when the Great Spirit returned to his home in the sky. He could remember sitting on the floor of his grandmother’s house in the middle of winter, listening raptly while she taught the children the legends of their tribe. That was long ago. He had been so young that he didn’t remember the stories, just the sense of warm feelings and happiness.
Perhaps because she knew he had forgotten the old stories or perhaps because she wanted to tell them to him one more time, his grandmother began speaking.
“Many ages ago,” she said, “two monsters lived in the mountains. On windy nights, the sound of their howling could
The view beyond the trailer was that of a large, sheet-metal barn and a junkyard full of discarded refrigerators, freezers, washing machines, and dryers, all of which were slowly rusting away, their doors hanging open or missing entirely.
As he got out of the truck, George noticed a thin young boy he guessed to be about fifteen or sixteen standing in the doorway and watching him. George was certain the boy was his cousin, Joseph, but he had just been a baby when George had left the reservation. He didn’t see him as a cousin. To George, he was just his aunt’s son. The boy opened the door as he approached. His hands trembled slightly, and his eyes darted about nervously as George walked up. In spite of the cold, a fine sheen of greasy sweat covered the boy’s face. The muscles in his jaw twitched, and he licked his dry, cracked lips incessantly.
George was sure the boy was on crystal meth. On the reservation, addiction among the younger generation had been a big problem for years, and it didn’t appear to be getting any better in spite of the anti-drug programs and frequent busts.
With a dejected sigh, George pushed past the boy. Inside, incense burned in a holder on top of the TV and filled the room with its cloying scent.
“She … she’s in the back room,” the boy stammered.
George stepped through the living room and down the narrow hall to the small bedroom at the back. A curtain of colored beads hung across the doorway. George paused for a moment and then parted the beads and stepped inside. The room was musty and smelled of urine.
His grandmother lay on her back, her eyes closed. Her breathing was faint and shallow. Her brown, wizened skin gave her face the appearance of an apple that had been left in the sun to dry and shrivel. Thin wisps of silvery-white hair spread across the yellowed pillowcase.
“It has been a long time, Little Hawk.” Even after so many years, the voice was still the same. He looked down and found her half-open, rheumy eyes looking up at him.
“It has.”
“Sit.” She lifted her frail arm to point at the wooden chair beside the bed.
George sat down and waited for her to speak.
“I did not know if you would come,” she said.
“I almost didn’t. Why did you call?”
“I know what killed those men at Hungry Horse.”
George remained silent. He knew that when the call had come in, she had professed to have information about the murders, but he had suspected it was just her way of asking him back. He knew that her health was failing and that she refused to be treated by any doctors. She was steadfastly loyal to the old ways of the tribe, clinging to the last remnants of her heritage to the very end. The same headstrong refusal to accept the modern world had kept his mother from going through with the cancer treatments that could have saved her life. After his mother had died, George left the reservation. Today was the first time he had returned in over fifteen years.
“Coyote came to me in a dream,” she said. “He came to tell me the monsters have returned to the mountains.”
George remembered the stories from his youth. Coyote was the wisest of all of the Great Spirit’s creatures, left to watch over all the other animals when the Great Spirit returned to his home in the sky. He could remember sitting on the floor of his grandmother’s house in the middle of winter, listening raptly while she taught the children the legends of their tribe. That was long ago. He had been so young that he didn’t remember the stories, just the sense of warm feelings and happiness.
Perhaps because she knew he had forgotten the old stories or perhaps because she wanted to tell them to him one more time, his grandmother began speaking.
“Many ages ago,” she said, “two monsters lived in the mountains. On windy nights, the sound of their howling could
Similar Books
